Gold Mourning :: Lust, Love, and Death Metal (OC, Non-BB, Pre-Canon)
by therealonewhowas
Summary: Apex isn't really sure who he is. He isn't really sure what he's doing. But he likes fighting, he likes rocking, and he's content. Until he meets a fan and, as always, he adapts.
1. The Time Has Come To Awaken Him

**Gold Mourning**

**Lust, Love, and Death Metal (OC, Non-BB, Pre-Canon)**

Apex isn't really sure who he is. He isn't really sure what he's doing. But he likes fighting, he likes rocking, and he's content. Until he meets a fan and, as always, he adapts.

Content Warning: Vivid depictions of mental health issues. Brief violence/gore. Brief mentions of suicide. Brief abusive relationship. Monsterfucking.

* * *

**1\. The Time Has Come To Awaken Him**

It started on a hill beneath cloudy skies, a light drizzle misting the air. My fur was dark, gray-green, cilia waving gently, colors subtly shifting to match the earth and sky. I glanced up, tasting rain, smelling damp grass and freshly-turned soil.

A movement at my side, seen without eyes. A woman, small but fierce, hair styled in three brightly-colored mohawks, slicked back with rain. The tang of metal on her skin, set into her forked tongue. Animal smells—musty fur, damp scales—concealed beneath a bulky wool peacoat. Bleached bones. Familiar. Like she belonged, even as she looked uncomfortable, faintly awkward. Her lips were dark, a sharp contrast to her pale skin, and I remembered.

"You take me to the nicest places," she muttered quietly, although I could hear her easily. One hand slid up my arm, jostling thick, living fur that writhed and gripped at her as she ran her fingers through it. She tucked her arm in mine, glancing up at me, other hand warding off the rain from her face. Searching my expression.

"It's not supposed to be raining," I rumbled back. None of this was supposed to happen, I felt, deep inside where my few certainties were buried. I glanced out over the trees, further down the hill, towards the ocean. Tasted decay, rotting fish, old rust, and more rain. Saw clouds, dense and foreboding, approaching from the east. A storm was coming. But I had some time.

I looked back up the hill, to the fresh grave and the man standing beside it. His head was bowed, as though the weight of the whole world rested upon his shoulders. Perhaps it did, in a way.

The woman followed my lumbering steps with practiced ease, one hand still resting on the crook of my arm, as we slowly made my way upwards. To the grieving man, and to the end of the world.


	2. Live To Die On Stage

**2\. Live To Die On Stage **

People bustled around me with quiet intensity, moving purposefully, carrying things, connecting cables, whispering loudly into headsets, their bodies tense with anticipation. I smelled sweat and excitement, the faintest hints of fear sharp to my senses. In the background thrummed a dull, unceasing roar, like waves crashing on a beach. Thousands of voices, of footsteps, the hum of electricity and the rising _click_ and _whump_ of machinery stirring to life.

Before me was a curtain, a dark wall over half of existence. Behind me, a wall of monitors, speakers, faint traces of explosives from buried fireworks and the tang of ozone clashing with the clean smell of metal, brass and steel, wood and plastic. Surrounding me were drums, arrayed in waiting silence, like the calm before a storm. Words were scrawled in familiar chicken-scratch, taped to the floor tom. "Oil Derrick Showdown" was crossed out, replaced with "God Driver," above other seemingly-random assortments of names I could only vaguely recall. They were important, I knew; not _terribly_ important, but the sort of important that meant I would get yelled at if I didn't read them, follow their guidance.

Lights flared with a crackle and thump, actinic and glaring, my vision adjusting instantly. The scurrying bodies redoubled in their intensity, many fleeing, their work completed. A few remained, taking their own positions, standing on tape-marked patches of well-worn wood. They settled into their poses, some wreathed in fur, others clad in leather, one wrapped tightly in latex. All bore horns, recurved, large on their heads, bracing built into their costumes, the weight born with familiarity. I watched them settle into routine—never dull, never boring. Saw their bodies shift and come to a tense rest, poised, like a runner on a starting block.

A voice hissed and whispered near my head—a discreet earpiece taped to the side of my face. "_You ready, Big A_?"

I found short lengths of taped wood, reinforced, from a small cylinder. Arrows in a quiver. Grasped one, two, three, four, one in each hand, familiar, comfortable. My tail flicked out behind me, as long as the rest of my body, spikes carefully retracted. Apparently this wasn't my first rodeo, and the movements were automatic, reflexive.

Taking that as assent, the voice crackled once again. "_Remember the setlist. Follow Olaf's lead if you can't._" I could hear a fond exasperation buried in the distorted sounds, could almost see the woman's small smile as she spoke. Could almost visualize her face.

There was a long, tense silence. I could just hear the crowd holding its breath, the crashing waves slowing, until the world seemed to hang on the edge of a knife, balancing at the very top of a rollercoaster, poised to descend.

One of the horned people broke pattern, glancing back at me, long fingers poised on his spiky, black guitar. Waiting.

The radio crackled once more, urgent. "_Protectorate says hostile capes inbound, west gate. Do you want to_—"

I smashed my tail into the giant gong behind me, and the world swung into motion. The curtain rose, the music started, and my hands blurred at the drums, a primal, three-part heartbeat ringing out into the sky, echoed by the howling screams of guitars and the deafening roar of the crowd.

I heard a faint sigh, digitally distorted, as the show began.

As the guitars paused, their last notes still vibrating in the air, the latex-clad woman screeched, visceral and raw. "We are Gold Mourning and we are here to _end the fucking world_!"

And then the explosions started.


	3. M : Go Forth, Be Conquered

**\m/ : Go Forth, Be Conquered**

_Oh my god_, I thought as he landed fifty feet away from me with barely a sound. _He's so much bigger in person_.

I'd planned on watching him from the moment we breached the walls of the arena, but then bullets and powers started flying and that shit got _real_ distracting. I'd seen him do it before in videos, anyway—leaping from pillar to pillar, practically soaring. They'd had to install the columns after the first time the show was interrupted by an attack and he'd charged through the crowd, tossing patrons like bowling pins. August, two-thousand six. The "We're All So Very Small, In The End" tour. I still had that poster, mint condition, first printing—assuming Mom hadn't thrown it out, anyway.

There was a crackling _whump_ and a blinding flash off to my left. _Shit, there went Malachim_. The lightning looked fucking awesome, even if it did mean the girl who kept bullets off of us was out of the picture earlier than planned. It danced over his fur, every inch of it animated, like it was a river of light flowing through waves of wheat, so much brighter and more _alive_ than the videos...

I had to tear my eyes away from the glory to hurriedly dodge back out of reach of the security guard with a tronc… a trunch… a club from whacking me in the face. Then I stepped forward, just as I'd practiced, right into his reach, and scooped out a smooth, bloodless chunk of his bicep with one claw-fingered hand, feeling my power slice it off, like pinching dough from unbaked bread. He staggered back, staring at his arm—they always did—and then went down when I threw the blob of meat right into his face.

I bared my teeth in a triumphant grin, head on a pivot to look for my next target—a flash of movement and I instinctively ducked as something flew overhead, missing the cat ears on my hood by inches. Was that Sourboy? I didn't even see Pinwheel, he had been right by—

_Ohfuck, where did he go—_

I made an involuntary _oof_ sound as something the size of a bus bowled me over, one massive claw pinning my chest to the ground. My head spun, seeing stars, the breath knocked out of me, and then…

And then the breath left me again for a different reason as he leaned down, red pits of his eyes staring at me like he could see straight through to my soul. If he had looked big before, he was a _mountain_ now. A carved, muscular, inhuman monument.

He pinned me to the ground, completely helpless in his monstrous grip, and I could feel the heat rise on my face, flushing. All I could think was—_this was everything I wanted._ Everything I had wished and dreamed, everything I had planned and schemed for, all for this exact moment. One of my arms was trapped against my side, damp grass and one irritating rock pressed into my back, his massive, furry, multi-armed body so close to me I could just—

I reached up with my free hand and—_oh god, oh god_—took the tip of his left horn clean off.

It felt so warm in my hand. Like Christmas morning and winning the lottery, in one sharp, ridged, slightly power-smudged package. I would never let it go.

And then he… and then _Apex_, the pinnacle of evolution, the peak of prowess, the murder machine himself...

He tilted his head, as though waiting for the horn to regrow. I knew he didn't have to—he said in an interview he hadn't needed his actual eyes to see since his raid on the Fallen back in '07. That was with Jon Stewart. I had the video memorized down to the gesture.

And when his horn didn't grow back after several long, breathless seconds, he turned his beautiful, jagged-toothed face down to look at me, and I melted as, for a moment, even without lips, I _swore_ he smiled.

His voice shook me down to the foundation, a low rumbling _purr_ that caught me completely by surprise and only made me love him all the more for it. Everything else seemed to fade away—the concert, the roaring, screaming crowd, the flashing lights, the still-playing guitars, the idiots I tricked into getting me here, in this place, in this perfect moment, it all disappeared until it was just me and him. Two monsters, alone together.

Gently, carefully, as though I were nothing more than an interesting bug he was afraid of squashing, he picked me up by the torso—I was going to have the most _amazing_ bruises tomorrow—and held me in the air, inches from his face. I bit my lip, and tentatively rested my free hand on his muzzle, feeling my power react to the touch, alive with potential. He chuffed in amusement, the wind from it nearly blowing my mane off, and I heard that low, _shiveringly_ animalistic voice growl a question.

"What else can you do, little one?"

And so I kissed him.


	4. Better Off Just Dying

**3\. Better Off Just Dying**

"Is this man bothering you?"

The scene unfolded with such familiarity it could have been scripted. The look on her face, relief to shock to confused gratitude. The look on his face, offended, arrogant, superior. Then shock, as he realized the bland, faintly computerized voice was actually coming from a small, heavily-padded tablet. Held in long-clawed hands. Of a seven-foot, horned, red-eyed monster. Silently looming behind him.

Teeth bared.

There was the smell of panic-sweat. I sniffed the air. It smelled nice.

I was a little disappointed he just bailed out instead of trying to start a fight. I watched him go, craning my neck, following him with my eyes until he made a beeline for the exit, ducked out without looking back once.

Only then did I turn back to the woman. Tapped out a message, using the stylus tip I'd glued to my index finger's claw, let my tablet make it understandable. "Sorry for the interruption."

"Hey! Um. Thanks," she said, before I'd finished slipping away. I just nodded slowly, careful not to poke anyone's eyes out with my horns. Dancers could be so careless about personal space, sometimes.

I noticed the bartender eyeing me, so I slunk delicately between patrons around the dance floor until I could lean my head over the bar.

"You have entirely too much fun doing that," she said, her voice no-nonsense, ever professional. Raised just loud enough to be heard over the music, _if_ you had enhanced hearing.

I chose my words carefully, then used my real voice, the bass rumble carrying more easily for her merely human ears. "It's the little things," I admitted.

She nodded. "You've done this before?"

I froze. She didn't react, if she did notice, her hands busy wiping a cloth over the bar. Knowing her? She probably did notice. I considered the challenge of trying to say 'maybe' without lips. Nayhee? Naygee? "Dunno," I said, giving up. I wasn't even trying to be misleading. I honestly didn't know.

It made passing as a Case 53 that much easier.

She nodded again, expression neutral, but vaguely thoughtful. She always met my eyes when looking at me, which was a rare kindness. "You know you didn't have to come in tonight."

I shrugged. Glanced around the club, its flashing lights, the warmth of so many bodies in motion, the smell of sweat and happiness so vivid I could almost pretend it was my own. "I don't really hathe any hoddies," I admitted, tongues twisting around the sounds I couldn't make anymore. Funny what my power considered non-essential. Then the music grew quiet, so I lowered my voice further to match.

She stopped wiping the bar, giving me a stern, vaguely disapproving look. "You can't—you _shouldn't_ be on the job twenty-four seven. You need an outlet."

I was preparing to simply leave the conversation when the air was split by a horrible screech of feedback, loud enough that even the bartender winced, turning her head towards the stage. Four people were sitting and standing at instruments, decked out in black leather and fishnets, deep eyeliner shadowing their eyes amidst the dramatic stage lighting. The lead singer stepped away from the mic, shaking his head, then tried again. Failed with another brief screech. Gave up and gestured at the drummer, who counted them in, went straight into a discordant, fast-paced metallic dirge. Belted out growls without even bothering with the mic. Not that anyone could understand what he was saying, anyway.

I could see the orange boy standing on the balcony, leaning over the rail, slick blue hair whipping through the air as he banged his head somewhere in the general vicinity of the rhythm. From his enthusiastic flailing, this band had been _his_ idea.

The bartender scowled, the expression natural on her severe features. "What a godawful noise."

Tilting my head, taking in the raucous noise with my enhanced senses, I couldn't help but agree.

Hell, even _I_ could do better.


	5. From A Thousand Deaths

**4\. From A Thousand Deaths**

The boy with the horns complained the whole time as we walked.

Well. He walked. I delicately slipped between people, trying not to knock over expensive-looking medical equipment or wobbly-looking sick folks. Hospitals weren't built for monsters like me.

It was like that feeling of walking through a crowd when someone's toddler slipped their leash and ran underfoot—that abrupt _oh shit don't move_ impulse that's the only thing keeping from getting yelled at for kneeing a squealing whelp in the face, even though it was entirely their fault. This was like that, except the toddlers were flimsy sacs of blood and toothpicks, and instead of maybe getting a bruise they would explode at the slightest provocation.

I had to bend over nearly double to keep the crystal spikes on my back from scraping the cheap acoustic tile. Shuffled slowly with my tail wrapped tightly around my legs so I didn't trip a distracted orderly or something. Awkward, stifled, a compressed spring, too much tension and nowhere safe for it to go.

Horned boy was completely indifferent to my plight, however, blathering on about something or other even as he connected me with the sick and injured, barely even paying them any notice. A living bridge, taking in damage and passing it on to me, only the lightest touch on what was between. The moment a patient and I were both in reach, he'd extend an arm in each direction, his touch sending little crackles of phantom electricity rippling through my body. The briefest of pauses, then shuffle, rinse, repeat.

I felt my kidneys rot. My knees shattered. My brain tried to swell out of my nonexistent ears. A dozen ribs cracked, then snapped back together like lego bricks. Everything went numb from the waist down for a moment, and I had to lean more heavily on my two front arms like a gorilla until sensation returned.

It felt good. It felt right. It felt like settling into your favorite recliner with some dinner after a long day, the little sigh that escapes your lips on its own just from the sheer relief of it. It also felt temporary, unfulfilling. Like eating crackers and thin soup for every meal; sustained but not thriving. I hadn't felt hungry in…

_Golden curls and blood-stained hands and angry daggers beneath fingernails and screaming, furious, desperate, terrified, outraged, struggling long after anyone else would have been silenced, muffled whumps and jolts deep inside where she refused to die but it was the only way nothing would get out I had to and everything hurt but that was when things were best and I would only grow stronger and—_

Years? Years. That felt right. But I had a different kind of hunger, one that grew lazy and quiet but never entirely went away. And this pain was helping, but only a little.

I arched my neck to look at our local cape escort, careful not to catch an IV stand with a horn. She was muscular, stocky, with a familiar sort of care in how she moved that screamed Brute to me, treading lightly around patients and wheelchairs. I flared my nostrils, took in a brief sniff of air I'd been avoiding—the smell of antiseptics always made me feel guilty for some reason—and picked out Old Spice, diesel fumes, a faint hint of whiskey and a stronger whiff of breath mints. She was supposed to be off duty, I thought, from the slight sag in her posture, the crossed arms. She'd drawn the short straw. I wondered if she'd help me. I wondered if she'd be worth a damn.

Her eyes met mine and I saw a poorly-concealed defensive reaction, followed by restrained eagerness, the barest tensing of muscles as though I might turn on her and give her the fight she wanted as well. My nostril slits flared again, smelling past the bleach and blood and shit to the tang of adrenaline and excitement. I could just barely hear her heart beating a tiny bit faster; saw her pupils dilate, the muscles in her fingers tighten.

"You're a freaky one, ain'tcha," she said quietly, barely audible. Her lips strained in contempt of a grin.

I chuffed, the little exhalation rustling the layers of her costume. Bright colors, washed out in the hospital lights. I wondered if she knew the patterns the fabrics made in ultraviolet. Like she was wearing government-sponsored tie-dye. A tight bodysuit with a loose, flowy sleeveless robe on top, it showed off her muscles nicely.

She shifted her weight, moving her arms from where they were crossed until one hand was nestled in the other. With a sound like a gunshot to my hearing, she popped one of her knuckles, shifted her grip a fraction, popped another. I could feel the lines of tension in her body slide and move, an impression of esoteric energies that made my spine crystals ache in anticipation. More than just a Brute. There was always something else, something different. A little variety in every cape. Spice.

The whole time we spoke, it was a long refrain of shuffle, pause, injury, heal, repeat. Ducking my head into rooms too small to fit me without breaking something nearby, flattening myself against walls to let harried nurses and staff pass by, tail always curled tightly around my feet, making myself light. Meditative. Mindless. I could focus all of my attention on her—her words, her posture, reading her.

"You're not doing this to help people, are you," she declared, not quite a question. Her words were quiet enough and the horned kid distracted enough he didn't even interrupt his ceaseless, meaningless tirade. I just stared at her, watching. She finished with one hand and moved to the other, little explosions, one after the other. "You're just here because your lawyers said it would be good PR or something." She gestured minutely with her chin, at the cancer patient that was quietly swelling with lost muscle mass, faint gurgles beneath my skin as my body absorbed the tumors into a bottomless well of new flesh.

Again she bared her teeth ever so slightly at me, mocking, aggressive. "Or maybe you're just in it for the pain. I've met weirdos like you before. The ones who _beg_ to be hurt, getting their rocks off in a sick masochistic fuck kinda way."

I would have bared my teeth back at her, but I didn't really have much choice in the matter. My tablet was elsewhere, so my words were restricted, but I didn't need any. She saw what she wanted to see. She saw enough. She got me, in her own limited way.

"They all have their limit. Always do. Where the pain stops being fun. Where they start crying for their mommas, begging for me to stop, they wanna live, please, they need their fingers, wah wah wah." She leaned forward, her voice flat, but a tiny bit hoarse—vocal fry. A bit of whites were visible all around her irises behind the flimsy domino mask. There was a tiny crackle of something that set my cilia waving, a little flash of orange energy between her fingertips, the sharp scent of ozone and strange radiations filling my nostrils.

My hearts were pounding, even if their rhythm was a little jolted from the overweight man on the nearest bed, the hand on my flank, trickle-feeding me the growth I wanted in huge gasps and tears. I felt a low growl fill my throat, wordless, deep with meaning.

"—and she has the nerve to be all disappointed with _my_ background when she worked for the nastiest gang of—oh for fuck's sake, another one? Keep it in your pants for one goddamn minute, this is a hospital for God's…" Horned boy slapped me on the back, grumbling, fishing around in his costume's robes for a card. Shoved it at our escort, whose eyes hadn't left mine, breaking her concentration, our moment. Disgruntled, she looked down at it. Flipped it over, then back again, scowling.

"What's this?" she asked, irritated at the interruption.

"Make an appointment. This isn't the time or place. We'll be in town another week." Horned kid went back to complaining, but this time about me. "Swear to all of God's angels, we draw all the crazies like a fucking magnet. Can't go ten feet without—" He jabbed a finger in her direction. "You'd better fucking call, or else he'll be sulking all the way to Oklahoma."

I fixed him with a glare, but he didn't so much as flinch. Damnit. I didn't _sulk_.

I just had needs.

We didn't speak again until the end of the shift, when I leaned in close to her—her hand still tightly clutching the card—and growled out a quiet, slightly garbled, "Wear the costume."


	6. M : If I Could Write Off Your Murder

**\m/ : If I Could Write Off Your Murder**

"I can't believe you made me miss the rest of the show."

I glared at the nondescript man from across the metal table, my arms crossed, giving him my best scowl. It was slightly less impressive without my costume, my living mane, my intimidating claws, my precious tail. They were probably going to die without me and I'd need to find replacements, and it was all this fucker's fault.

His expression was impassive, unimpressed. Short-cropped blond hair, neat clothing straight out of a 'Boring for Men' catalog, stiff posture reinforced by the stick up his ass. Even his voice was flat, uninteresting. "You and your companions injured forty people, nearly killing two. The fact that you aren't in jail right now is entirely thanks to the undeserved mercy of my employee."

I tried not to let my expression change, but internally I winced. That was a bit more than I intended, even for a display of force... but it worked, didn't it? Besides, we'd only _nearly_ killed two, which was pretty good considering the kind of scum I'd suckered into this mission. And I had signed the (extensive!) concert-goer waivers enough times before to know that even if someone _had_ been permanently maimed or killed at a Gold Mourning show, it wasn't like anyone could sue over it.

In the end, I was here because of Apex, and I wasn't going fucking _anywhere_.

He laid a manila folder on the table, opened it, started flipping through the papers. He did it slowly enough I knew it was just for effect, and it set my teeth on edge. "Jennifer Weisman, age twenty-four, also known as Plasticine. Juvenile delinquent—" hey, those records were _sealed_ "—with a small parade of misdemeanors, one or two relatively harmless felonies—unlicensed cosmetic surgery is barely even a crime—and one charge of second degree murder." The smarmy motherfucker paused just long enough for me to know he was needling me, before continuing, "Acquitted." Another page turned, but he didn't really seem to be reading so much as it was a prop for his bullshit speech. "Striker three, Master one, Stranger one." He sniffed. "Not as impressive as most of his more determined admirers, but there is no accounting for taste."

"Where is he?" I demanded, ignoring his spiel and determined not to rise to the bait. Talk was cheap, and this fucker could call me weak all he wanted while my hands were bound. Apex, though… I hadn't seen him since the Protectorate had swooped in, followed by lawyers, doctors, a handful of unfamiliar capes, a whole fucking circus ushering me into different little prison cells, waiting rooms and interrogation chambers like this one. After the gift I left him with that kiss, I'd… I'd expected he'd want to keep me near him. Instead, even after I'd heard the last encore, I was left alone, uncomfortably aware of my costume's absence, staring at the metal walls of the ten-by-ten room beneath its glaring fluorescent strip lighting, until this bland fucker walked in here like he owned the place.

"Apex is indisposed at the moment."

I sneered to hide my discontent. "Show's over. What could be more important—" than me? "—than his fans?"

He gave me a long look over horn-rimmed glasses, making me feel even more exposed without the warmth of my costume nestled around me. "I believe he had a previous engagement." The tiny little smirk that followed only made things worse. "One could even charitably call it a date."

...What?

My heart was a lead ball settled in the pit of my stomach. It crushed my lungs, making it hard to breath, hard to think. Blond corporate asshole just watched me, all tailored suit and stupid cheekbones, and it was his aura of _complete fucking indifference_ that pissed me off enough to collect my thoughts.

It was fine. We had just met, after all. He probably made that… _arrangement_ before the show. Once he spent time with me he wouldn't need anyone else. Not that I'd mind it if he did! He's gotta be his beautiful monster self. He would just come home to _me_ afterward.

Besides, the douche-in-a-suit said it 'could' be called a date. Probably trying to fuck with me. Just like when he said—

"Wait. Your _employee_?"

His grin widened slightly, still unnerving on his face. "Indeed. I am the majority shareholder in Gold Mourning Incorporated. As well as its accountant and primary legal counsel. I am a man of many hats."

I… guessed Apex would be too busy being awesome to bother with paperwork. It didn't change anything, anyway. I was still here because Apex _wanted_ me here, and that's what mattered. I shook my head, felt my hair fall limp from all of the sweating and fighting. My wrists were chafed from the heavy metal gloves that bound my hands up to the elbows, my back straining from the weight even while sitting down—and my ass was going numb from the flimsy metal chair. Plus it was too goddamn cold—not enough to fog my breath, but just enough to be distinctly uncomfortable. I just wanted to get the fuck out of here and start my new life together with Apex. Years of dreaming, wishing, then planning, organizing… it was almost in reach. So close.

"What do you want from me?" I narrowed my eyes at him, trying to figure out the quickest and easiest route to getting me what I had fought so hard for.

He reached down into a briefcase I hadn't noticed, pulling out something small and—_Apex's horn_. He had it. It was mine, and he had it, and my hands were bound, and—

He placed it on the table between us with a _click_, the sharp, slightly curved tip pointed up, the smooth base at the bottom, where my hand had scooped it off of Apex. Then, with two fingers, he slid my trophy over to my side of the metal table.

I looked up at him, calculating. He had one hell of a poker face, when he wasn't grinning creepily.

"Your sole purpose, Miss Weisman—"

"_Plasticine_."

"—is to keep my employee happy."

I blinked at him. That… that was all I'd wanted to do anyway! What the hell was his deal?

"For as long as you are able." _Cocksucker_. "In exchange, you will become a nominal member of the Gold Mourning staff, with its statistically significant risk of injury, maiming, and death, accidental or deliberate." He paused. "Your alternative is—"

"I'm in." Like there was ever any doubt. I had heard the stories. I had done a lot of research. Details aside, this was what I expected, what I had hoped for.

He closed the manila folder, face impassive, neither pleased nor disappointed, and certainly no more surprised than I was. "I believe you have made the right choice."

"So what happens now?" I asked, trying to keep my voice as aloof and uncaring as this bastard was.

"Now," he droned, "we discuss the terms of your probation. Followed by"—and then he sighed softly, a creepy amount of contentedness oozing off of him for that moment—"an _extraordinary_ amount of paperwork."

By the time I stumbled out of that torture chamber—hands sore, ass fully numb, ankle twinging from the awkward, unbalanced weight of the tracking bracelet—all I wanted was a bath, a snack, a beer, a light coma, and a hug. With four arms. And maybe a tail.

Instead I was met and escorted by a woman with dreadlocks and even more tattoos than I had, walking just outside of arm's reach. I wasn't sure if I should be offended or pleased that she was being careful around me, but her tone was just professional, maybe a bit tired. Matter-of-fact, like she'd said it all before.

"Here's your badge. Keep it around your neck or on your belt at all times." She handed me a little plastic placard with the band logo on it: Apex's horned head, encircled by a thin line, all in gold on black. "You've got black clearance, so if you're a fan, welcome to heaven." That cheered me up a little. _I had made it_. "Just don't get in folks' way, please."

I nodded, _almost_ too tired to look around like a tourist. Trailers, trucks, temporary buildings, double-wides, all laid out in neat rows and squares. Order in the chaos. I had no idea where she was leading me, though. Hopefully there would be a bed. Glancing at my guide, I saw the back of her black crew shirt said "YES I'M DUCT TAPE" on it in big silver letters, with "Operations" beneath that in much smaller text, and—along with a utility belt and leather fanny pack covered in spikes—a giant roll of the aforementioned duct tape slung on her hip like Wonder Woman's lasso. Oh, shit, she was talking at me again. "What?"

Fortunately, she took my mental and physical exhaustion in stride. _Fuck, this ankle bracelet was uncomfortable._ "I asked if you have any dietary restrictions or accessibility concerns I should be aware of." She flashed a quick, weary smile, lines creasing her deeply sun-tanned skin. "Gotta take care of our VIP guests' needs."

That perked me right the fuck up. Damn right I was VIP. No matter _what_ the blond motherfucker had said.

Before I knew it, we were at a particularly large tent, hearing talking, laughing, and… low tempo jazz? The woman apparently known as Duct Tape waved me past the doorman—as though my distinct look, style, and ankle bracelet weren't proof enough?—and ushered me inside the large tent where off-duty staff, band members, a couple of dogs and a handful of people I didn't recognize but assumed were VIPs were lounging around on a truly staggering collection of bean bag chairs, giant pillows and dog beds.

I didn't see Apex—he wouldn't have been hard to spot, even in a tent this size—so instead I made a beeline for the catering table and destroyed a section of a party sub, but not before tossing aside the cold cuts within in vague distaste. Oh shit, was that hummus? Oh damn, it was good stuff, too. I would have already started fangirling over the other members of the band and someone I was pretty sure was a Protectorate cape judging from the costume, but I needed some goddamn carbs first.

"Oh heys, new girl!"

Without pausing my ruthless destruction of a veggie tray, I glanced over towards the voice. Oh shit, that was definitely_ Olaf fucking Kvalheim_—I choked for a moment, coughing, before grabbing a fistful of carrots and making my way unsteadily over the haphazard piles of pillows and cushions strewn over the ground. He waited patiently, a curious look on his face, and I saw his eyes move to the ankle bracelet and move up again, now smiling warmly. He had soft blue eyes, a gentle curve to his face, and without the makeup and costume he looked far more comfortable wearing a baggy green sweater than someone as badass as he was should look.

I had barely plopped down on a cushion beside him before I said, spraying only a little, "I've gotten your autograph four times and read your autobiography twice."

He laughed good-naturedly, every bit as friendly and approachable as I'd remembered from his interviews and appearances. The band mom, the heart of the team (while Apex was its soul, of course), winner of two Grammys, and one hell of a guitarist. He introduced himself needlessly, two other members of the band also sprawled in the circle—less famous, mostly new, as Apex tended to go through a lot of bassists for some reason—as well as some other people whose names were both irrelevant and immediately forgotten, including the Protectorate hero, who was alright, I supposed. But they had alcohol, so they were cool enough.

The whole time I hung out with _the actual fucking band of Gold Mourning_ like it was no big deal, two thoughts kept playing through my mind.

One, that this was everything I had wanted. I was shooting the shit with the greatest band in history, comparing scars, talking about old tours I'd seen them and other bands we liked in common. I even fiddled around on a spare guitar in the futile hopes I could impress these mortal gods.

Two… where the hell was he?


	7. Heartbeats Faster From Inside

**Heartbeats Faster From Inside**

My muscles didn't ache. I felt like they should.

It was a long climb out of the ruined rock quarry. Uneven terrain had been made even more chaotic with the cracks and craters, which seemed like recent additions. My spine still tingled with black lightning, dark energy. It lingered on the back of my throat, an aftertaste. That kind of thing stuck with me longer than most. It provided... continuity.

I followed my own scent—after a short vertical climb—to a cargo van, where I could hear someone singing along to a country song. Poorly. It was almost _offensively _off-key, and I unconsciously pulled my lips back, baring my teeth—

Huh. That was new.

I pursed my lips. Made a kissy face. Scowled. And… blew a raspberry. Oh, it felt like ages since I could do that...

As soon as I got within view of the driver's side window, there was a brief flurry of activity and the music changed to something much more aggressive. Death metal. Lots of screeching. I prefered country, if not the accompanying singing. The window rolled down, the music suddenly blaring, and a kid with a goat-horned mask leaned out of it, smelling like panic-sweat and embarrassment. And alcohol.

"Heyyyy, Big A," the kid called out, slurring ever so slightly. "Beshba-whatever need another boost, or…"

I paused. Who—_right_. There was someone in the crater I had left. Pretty sure he had been breathing.

I shook my head.

He pressed a button, and I heard a faint _kathunk _from the back doors. I started to climb in, heard the suspension creak in complaint, then made myself light. Squeezed myself into the white, windowless van, sticking my head over the center console so I could look through the windshield. Cloudy night, not much to see. Kid messed around with the transmission for a minute before it ground into gear, sending us lurching forward, towards a dirt road.

I glanced at the kid, then at the empty beer bottles clinking together in the footwell of the passenger seat, then back at the kid. "Are you even old enough to drive?"

He gave me an offended look through the eyeholes of his mask. "You expensed the strippers for my seventeenth birthday last month, Big A." I had the vague impression of a very angry lecture from a very serious person, which lent credence to his claim.

"Did I buy you the beer, too?"

Goat kid laughed, a sharp bark, the van swerving slightly. "What, you worried we'll get hurt in a crash?"

I looked out the windshield. Dirt road, trees, the occasional wooden fence. Not another pair of headlights in sight.

Shifting my weight so I could reach with a smaller, more delicate hand towards the console, I hit the 'last station' button on the radio. A soft crooning filled the van, replacing the dying cat wails from before. Kid got a lot less cocky after that. Thankfully, he didn't sing along this time.

I helped loading when we got back onsite. Big machines, disassembled. A stage had a staggering number of moving parts, all carefully pulled apart piece by piece by the rest of the crew, efficiently and without complaint.

Well. Mostly without complaint.

I listened as I worked, little people shifting easily to let me pass by from long familiarity.

"I'm already a glorified prisoner. You want me banging rocks together, too?" Her voice was indignant, haughty. Her fists weren't clenched, but they were tense, clawlike. I saw the gap on the tip of my horn and remembered, _right, that was her_. I could see it on a leather strap around her neck—a pendant, a trophy. Not sure how I felt about that, personally, but my body liked it.

"You're a roadie, new girl, not a groupie. That means you're a part of the crew, and that means you _work _for your supper."

She made an exasperated sound, actually putting her hands on her hips. "Do you know who I am?"

The man smirked at her, but it seemed a little sad. Pitying, perhaps. He was wearing black work denim, a largely plain black tee, sturdy boots, and the tattoos of satanic symbols and alchemical circles covering his forearms were plain to see. His hair was dark, cut short, with a sharp widow's peak, slick with sweat I could smell from a hundred feet away, by the trucks.

"I don't think that matters as much as you think it does, here."

She seemed undeterred. Or at least insistent on not pulling her weight. "I am _Plasticine_! I tear people limb from limb, turn them into monsters. I am a _supervillain_."

His eyes glowed in warning an instant before his arms lit up in crackling green flame, fingertips to elbows, lightly singing the edges of his sleeves. My cilia waved, little zaps of static electricity dancing across my fur in sympathetic reaction. Fond feelings. Right. Those emerald flames… that was… Burnout.

His smile grew wider, lit from within like his eyes. "You're just another Ninny, far as I'm concerned."

She leaned back from the sudden heat, eyes wide. "You're… you're Greenflame? Holy shit, you're _Greenflame_!?" Her face grew animated, excited, eagerness overcoming fear. I'd seen that look on her face once before, pretty sure. It fit her better than her haughty attitude from before, even if her sudden enthusiasm seemed to throw Burnout off his stride for a moment. He narrowed his eyes at her, a questioning look.

In front of me, one truck filled up, black-clad crew slamming the doors, locking them shut. I followed the nearest stagehand, started loading the next one. Always more work to do.

"You were one of the Big Six in New Orleans! Brute-Burner! It was all over the Villain subforums in, uh, oh-six. You were… weren't you Caged?"

"Mediated sentence. And it's Burnout, now." The flames extinguished themselves, and he bent over to pick up a spool of cable from the edge of a concrete platform. "Point is, don't matter who ya are, there ain't no idle hands on tour. You can get to work or you can go to jail, I don't care, just don't slow us down." And then he shoved the spool roughly into her arms, pointed at the nearest cargo pallet, and got back to loading.

She stared at him for a beat, expressions warring on her face. Finally, she followed him, muttering, "This is bullshit," under her breath.

I watched her as I worked, but aside from the occasional grumbling, she did pull her weight.

I didn't let her see me. Breakdown was a big, messy process and there were plenty of places to hide, shifting my fur to blend in with my surroundings. Just another amp, or stage decoration, or part of the walls. Stalking… felt right, in a way I didn't have words for. Watching. Waiting.

Still working, though. I obeyed muscle memory as much as guidance from the crew, going where I was needed, lifting with gentle care what would have otherwise required a forklift.

Because my attention was on her, I noticed the animals before the others did.

She was taking a union-mandated break, chugging a bottle of water empty then tossing the plastic into an open trash bag the cleanup crew had set up. Burnout and a woman with a giant roll of silvery tape on her hip—right, Duct Tape—were chatting about their time with the tour. Making her feel welcome, I guessed. A bird settled on new girl's shoulder, and she absentmindedly petted it, stroking its black feathers with the back of one hand. Fed it some of the protein bar she was munching on. Burnout seemed impressed.

Then the cat wound its way around her feet. It had made a beeline to her after chasing down a few rats that had been drawn by the hospitality trucks. It purred contentedly as she picked it up, sharing some meaningless personal detail about her musical tastes.

Its fur grew longer, rough patches smoothing out with each stroke. It seemed to enjoy it.

"Damn. You must really love cats. They clearly love you." Burnout followed the bird with his eyes as it flew off, presumably because of the newest arrival. It didn't go far, loitering next to a few others on top of a nearby trailer.

The girl answered distractedly, "Oh, no, I hate the little vermin. They can tell that, though. That's why they always go for people who are allergic to them, you know?" She tugged on the cat's fur a little, shaping it into a bouffant, a big curved arc of shaggy, golden-brown hair. "They have their uses, though."

"Like catching—" Burnout began, then stopped abruptly as the girl shifted her grip on the creature to its head and its back paws then abruptly shook it out like a towel with a wet _FLURP _sound. She settled it around her neck like a hooded scarf, making small adjustments. It looked like the mane she was wearing before as part of her costume.

Huh. That explained the animal smell.

Burnout looked a little sick. Duct Tape gagged, excused herself. New girl seemed… rather pleased with herself. More confident. Tried to continue the conversation about music, which I tuned out.

It was… interesting. Perhaps there was more to her than just another desperate fan and/or joyfully sadistic playmate. I thought about the cat.

"She's honestly kinda fucked up," I rumbled to myself.

"...I dig it."


	8. M : Irony and Spite

It was only after I was exhausted from hours of wrestling cables, crates and giant tupperware containers into a small fleet of eighteen-wheelers, had gotten grimy and extraordinarily sweaty despite the brisk fall breeze and nearly exhausted the entirety of my social batteries from meeting dozens of people and forgetting each and every one of their names… that I got to see _him_.

He materialized out of some nearby bushes, suddenly looming over me. Made barely a sound, despite his massive size. I may have jumped a little. My hand had frozen an inch from his throat when I realized who _dared _to sneak up on me.

He chuffed a little, blowing warm wind through my new mane. He sounded a bit disappointed, as though he had surprised me on purpose. So I let my hand move the last inch, resting on his long, muscular neck. Felt my power react to the contact, digging my fingertips into the fur, the slightest push able to smear his flesh like fresh paint. Instead I reached up with my other hand, wrapping my arms around his neck, drawing myself close to him, trying to ignore how bad I probably smelled to him and how loud my heartbeat was beating even in my own ears.

"_Finally_," I murmured, nuzzling my face into his fur. I'd been working towards this for so long. The conclusion of years of dreaming, months of plotting, days of breathless anticipation, and now here he was, within reach. In my arms. Mine.

My heart skipped a beat as I felt his broad hands press down on either hip… and then lurched when he pushed me away slightly, gently, breaking the hug.

His glowing red eyes met my hurt green ones. His voice reverberated in my ribcage from sheer size and proximity, an inhumanly deep bass rumble, gravely and monstrous and setting me tingling.

"What do I call you?"

Oh, right. We hadn't really… talked much. At all. Here I was getting ahead of myself…

"Plasticine." Cape name felt right. With my costume, it was who I was. The best parts of me.

"No," he rumbled.

Wait, what? "No?"

"Doesn't mmmake sense," he replied, drawing out the 'm' sound, savoring it. It must have been years since he could do that. I felt a flash of pride seeing him carefully move his new lips. Goddamn was I good. Shit, he was still talking, _pay attention_. "Not plastic. Animals."

"It's… a modeling clay." I touched the relic, the tip of the horn nestled between my breasts. "I mold people. Animals. Like… clay…"

He shook his head. "No."

I scowled a little, frustrated, then tried to reconsider, see things from his point of view. Maybe that was just my _old _cape name. I'd get a new one, as part of my new life here with Apex. That was a thing, right? I thought quickly, pulling from a pool of old choices.

"Chimera," I said, a bit more confidently than I felt.

His head shook a bit, shaggy fur and recurved horns exaggerating the movement. Maybe he didn't mean cape names? I wasn't about to use my old name, but maybe something connected…

"Mera?" This time it was a question. Trying to figure out the right answer. God, he was so beautiful, and the weight of his larger hands on my hips was making it incredibly hard to think. He was so _close_.

"Hmm." The low growl sent shivers down my spine. I could _feel _it, connected as I was to him.

He took on a thoughtful pose, one of his secondary hands reaching up to tug on the fur beneath his chin, glancing off to the side. Then he worked his lips, moving and stretching them, reaching up further to feel at them with his fingers. Testing them. I waited, just watching him, marveling at my work, marveling at all the different ways his body moved, finally able to see him, inspect him closely. He truly was a work of art.

"I've got it," he said slowly, after an interminable silence.

"What kind of bullshit name is _Lipstick_?" I snarled, kicking the console of the van in frustration. Burnout gave me a sharp look from the driver's seat, and I lowered my foot, but I still scowled, arms crossed. The reminder of the heavy little brick at my ankle didn't help in the slightest. This was not at all like I imagined things would go after I actually achieved my goal.

Once he seemed confident I wouldn't dent the paneling, Burnout sighed a little. "It's your A-name. Bear it with pride."

"What the fuck's _that _supposed to mean?" I didn't sound at all petulant. No, _you _shut up.

Burnout paused, flicking the turning signal before slowly turning onto the freeway, leading the caravan. I was only in the front seat because I was a local and knew the good pit stops. Clean showers were worth their weight in gold, according to the crew. The good half-dozen of them sprawled out in the seats behind us were starting to smell a bit ripe. Not that I could claim better. Apex didn't seem to mind it, at least.

"Look. Big A has… a bit of a memory thing. Has since before I met him, and I've been here since Gee Emm's second or third tour. Don't come up much, and not a lot of people talk about it, we just work around it. You know, help him out."

I quieted down, listening intently. This was juicy shit I'd never hear on any of the podcasts, radio shows, vlogs and forums I'd normally spend time on.

"Story goes, he fought someone way back when." He merged smoothly into the flow of traffic, eyes darting to mirrors, keeping track of the eighteen-wheelers behind us. "Weaponized memories. Made 'em into illusions, nightmare monsters, traps, the works. Big A adapted, like he do. But his power don't always give him what he hopes for." He snorted a little, a fond chuckle. "He's been wishing he could breathe fire for years. Instead he can put them out. With lightning. Which is kickass, obviously, but not what he wanted. Just what he needed."

I was enraptured, wishing he didn't keep pausing to deal with something as mundane as traffic. "So his power took away his memories."

Burnout nodded. "That's how the story goes, anyway. I'd say ask him yourself, but…" He smiled, his teeth a bit yellow, tobacco-stained. "He says he can't remember."

I processed that, thinking. It broke my heart, and I wished I could do something, anything, to help. But my power wasn't… great with brains. Usually an all or nothing deal. Keep them as they are or squash them down just enough to stay alive and still be somewhat useful. But the tantalizing thought of getting my hands on Apex reminded me of why I was complaining to begin with.

"But why _Lipstick_?" The scowl returned. Something with at least a tiny bit of goddamn _dignity _would have been nice. The chuckles from the backseats didn't help, or abate when I shot a glare at them.

"I was gettin' to that." And then instead of actually getting to it, he called back to someone in the back of the van—Carlos, maybe? I felt a sudden sympathy with Apex on the topic of forgetting names—in Spanish, getting a one-word reply. Nodded. Changed lanes again. Only then did he continue. "An A-name is a badge of honor. Means you've gone and done something worth remembering. Few people get 'em. Usually people important to him. Happy Pill. Duct Tape. Sunshine. Pizza. Everyone has their reason." He flashed a grin at me again, briefly glancing away from the road. "And me? I'm Burnout."

I stared at him, eyes narrowed, not sure if he was fucking with me or not. "So why Burnout and not Greenflame?" His old name had some style to it. Burnout was just… not quite sad—bittersweet.

He exhaled sharply from his nose in amusement. "You called me Brute-Burner. It's cuz I got a little bit of Trump in me. My fire burns Brutes harder. Always catches them by surprise. Think they're _sooo _tough. Fucking invincible." His smile turned a shade vicious, and I suppressed a shiver seeing it, remembering why he was almost Birdcaged. I was a supervillain, but he was just _dangerous_.

"It meant his attention stayed on me more than most. Big beautiful bastard burned like a bonfire, if you'll pardon the alliteration. Every day, I'd watch him light up, literally and figuratively. So happy. So bright. For _weeks_. Would've been part of the show, even, if the fire marshal hadn't nixed it. More Brute-y he got, brighter the flames, until…"

His eyes unfocused slightly, lost in thought. He blew out a wistful sigh. "Stayed because I like the work—it pays well, and the health plan is killer." He shook his head, as though escaping old memories, just now remembering why he told the story to begin with. "But yeah. That's how I became Burnout."

I sat there in silence for a long few minutes. It was both a sad story, and a warning sign.

Right there, on the long stretch of arrow-straight highway connecting two flyover states, as I left my old life and headed towards a scary, exciting new future, I made myself a resolution. I, Mera (no matter what that beautiful bastard called me), would not end up like Burnout. Nostalgic, impotent, discarded. I would be with Apex til the end of days.

The rest of the crew, half-dozing in the seats behind us, seemed lost in thought as well. Nobody broke the silence that followed the story.

One thing still made me scowl at the road ahead. Sure, I had given him his lips back, and I was amazing and definitely worth remembering, but...

"...But did it have to be _Lipstick _though!?"

And that's when the crew started shouting at me to shut up and kicking the back of my seat.

Assholes.


	9. From My Failure To Fly

The air was thin here, hovering on the edge between the sky and the stars. Half the canvas was black; the rest was framed in luminous indigo, streaked with brushstrokes of cloud-mottled green on a background of blue and gray, with smears of light just visible where the sun had begun to set. A slow sweep from horizon to horizon.

I took in a breath, lungs expanding, feeling a dull ache as it brought in nearly nothing. The pain had been sharper, before. Eventually it would go away entirely.

And it was oh so very quiet. Quiet, and still.

For a while, it was kind of nice. Peaceful. I had been fighting, before. Pretty sure. It had been fun, as it always was. The abrupt change had been a rare surprise, hurtling skyward, a helium balloon released into the void. The rushing wind allowed me the illusion of flight, of control. I could spread out, seven limbs sprawled, or I could twist myself into a spear, stabbing towards space.

But then I had slowed, and found some sort of equilibrium. High enough to kill most things. Not good enough for me. Then again, I'd yet to find anything that was. I had looked.

The radiation was alright. It tingled my insides. But I was bored. And vaguely indignant. Some no-name punk in a podunk town in the Rockies, trapping _me _in low orbit? It would have made a lame inscription on a cenotaph.

That thought seemed to trigger something, a strange twisting sensation deep inside me. Or perhaps my power was growing bored as well.

It felt like growth from healing, the swelling of new flesh filling in the void left by the most interesting of powers, but… there was nothing to heal. I didn't even grow—even though the thought of wings left me briefly hopeful. Instead I felt that growth from within layering upon itself. A pressure, building beneath my scales and fur. Just adding more to what was already there, thicker, tougher, heavier…

Denser.

The crystal spikes along my spine swirled with faint energies, echoes of whatever dimensional fuckery was happening inside me. My power and I were in agreement; this had gone on long enough, now back to work.

The black began to fade, the faintest hints of wind starting to whisper, then whistle, then wail around me as I picked up speed, hurtling towards the only planet where I could expect to find decent tacos. A good choice, all in all.

The warmth was invigorating. Some of the boundless growth of flesh served its original purpose, replacing flaked, charred bits of scale and fur as quickly as they broke off of my body. The growth slowed, but did not stop, and I could hear as well as feel my bones creak from the strain of supporting their own weight—until things shifted a tiny bit more, and their complaints stopped. Forcing my own growth? That was… it had been a long time. Pretty sure. Even my claws didn't pierce my hide anymore.

Whatever I was doing to counteract the power that hurled me into space wasn't stopping, and my speed wasn't slowing. I curled myself into a ball, gripping the end of my tail. Using my cilia, I tried to gently, subtly guide my descent, keeping me from spinning out and spoiling the view—not that I could see much past the white-hot shield of air gathered beneath me.

I hoped I could remember this moment. Baby's first shockwave.

I struck the ocean—a wall of force stretching from horizon to horizon, details like clouds and waves flashing into existence instants before they disappeared or were blasted away—at what felt like several times the speed of sound.

Everything went dark.

For a timeless moment, or minute, or month, I felt and knew nothing.

And then there was silt. Flickers of movement—bottom feeders, recycling the fish that I'd killed on impact. _Hello, ocean floor, we meet again_. At least, I assumed. It felt a little familiar, like one of those weighted blankets, a firm, cold pressure. I looked around, but there was nothing to find down here. Nothing caught my senses, even seeing in the dark as well as I could.

I looked up at the faint hint of light I could sense far above. A long swim. Or…

My spine tingled. A kind of suction, drawing inside. Healing, but in reverse. Lighter, I lifted off from the seabed and popped like a cork into the sky a minute later, settling on bobbing on the ocean's surface. Couldn't seem to go any higher. No dirigible-ing for me, anymore. It seemed a fair trade for not being trapped in purgatory any longer.

I sneezed out the water in my lungs, sniffed the air. Ozone, dead fish, and a whole lot of saltwater.

I picked a direction at random and started swimming, keeping my limbs tucked at my sides, letting my tail—as long as all the rest of me—slice me through the water.

Eventually, if I could find shore, find familiar faces, find out where I had been before… I might find the person who yote me into space again. I was fifty/fifty on whether I'd thank them or squash them like a bug.

Just another day in paradise.


	10. M : Thick Knives That Cut The Night

After a nearly-uninterrupted eight hour stretch of highways, rest stops and fast food shops, it was made abundantly clear to me why Burnout hadn't listed "love of melodic death metal" on his list of reasons to stay with the tour.

If I heard any more smooth _fucking_ jazz I would tear my own ears off. My power didn't even work on me (I'd tried). I would just reach up and tear them off with my bare hands.

For everyone's safety and my own sanity, I disregarded his vaguely-worded warnings and made my way to Apex's trailer, stretching out the kinks in my back and shoulders. Didn't have much time, since we were due in St. Louis in time to set up tomorrow morning, and the blond fucker in charge "strongly discouraged deviations to the schedule." He practically stood outside of restrooms with a goddamn stopwatch.

In a foul mood, I banged on the door to the trailer.

Said foul mood vanished when a furry, horned head peeked out from inside, curving down to look at me.

We stared at each other for a long, breathless moment.

"Hi gorgeous," I said, smiling awkwardly, because I'm a huge fucking dork, jesus christ what was I even—

I couldn't even blame him when his head tilted slightly, then disappeared back into the trailer without a word. I was just psyching myself up for slinking back into the god-forsaken _jazzmobile _in shame when the very end of his tail caught the door before it closed, holding it open for me. I couldn't climb inside fast enough, scrambling up the tailgate or whatever—and then immediately tripping on and onto a well-worn, claw-marked... dog bed.

This moment was not going in my tell-all autobiography.

Thankfully Apex didn't seem to notice, instead turning around three times and then settling down on a big cushy pile of rugs, bean-bag chairs, and pillows, curling around himself. His head rested on the tip of his tail, head aimed vaguely in my direction. As good as any invitation, I supposed...

I could hear engines starting up, so I closed the door behind me—shooing out the cat that tried to follow me inside—and carefully made my way over uneven, moving ground until I could half-trip, half-throw myself on top of him, eliciting a muffled, low-pitched _oof _sound. I sank into him like the most plush of stuffed animals, nestling and burrowing into warm, dense fur that wiggled and grasped at me mindlessly. In a moment of unbridled hutzpah, I lifted up one of his middle arms with some difficulty and rested it over me, tucking myself in as a very, very tiny spoon.

He didn't resist, but he didn't clutch me tighter or anything. That was fine. I could accept that.

For now.

Once I was nestled deep into his warmth, making myself at home, I glanced around the trailer. Aside from the scattered pillows, there was a mini-fridge in one corner, a tiny end-table with a charging stand for a tablet, and a haphazard collage of photos, notes, and post-its along one wall. Something to investigate later, with my 'black clearance' access. Closer to Apex than any interviewer, any journalist, any VIP visitor. Special.

The eighteen-wheeler picked up speed as the driver took it onto the highway, and the low drone of roads on asphalt served as a bass line for the triple-counted percussion of his heartbeats and the low strings of his breathing. My own, two-part heartbeat joined in, our chests thumping lazy polyrhythms together. Day two with Apex, and we were already making music.

I must have fallen asleep, because I woke up with a start as he moved out from around me, motions slow, careful. The sweetheart. I looked up just in time to catch the sun _right in my fucking eyes_ as a panel slid back from the top of the truck, a sunroof you could drive a car through. Blinking, I watched as he stuck his head through it, peeking over the edge of the wall, legs curled beneath him, chin slightly raised into the wind.

His hair flowed majestically, blown back in rippling waves. His eyes closed, enjoying the breeze… but as sixteen feet of tail started slowly waving back and forth behind him, gently _thwapp_ing against the pillows, he looked for all the world like a gigantic borzoi sticking his head out a car window.

Apex had always been beautiful to me. A pinnacle of evolution, of strength, flexibility and indomitable will to survive. Since I first saw the album art on his first release, I had admired him, body and soul.

But here, like this?

He looked _adorable_.

I watched him in silent appreciation for long minutes, shielding the sun from my eyes with one hand. He looked so peaceful, so content. And, as I saw him enjoy this little moment, this small pleasure, I realized I was separate from him, only observing...

Once he realized my intent—after a little awkward climbing around sharp crystal spine spikeys—he gently wrapped one enormous hand around my waist and propped me up on his shoulders, legs straddling his neck. I held onto his horns like bicycle handlebars to keep myself from falling, noting with pride the snipped off tip of one of them, still yet to grow back.

The wind was intense, the lowering sun was glaring right into my eyes, and jagged crystals did not the best seat make... but there was nowhere else in the world I would rather have been in that moment. I could have shouted, whooped, laughed defiantly into the wind, but instead I just closed my eyes and felt the wind blow through my own hair, soaring over the asphalt. A Titanic moment. Queen of the world.

He leaned his head back slightly, looking up at the sky, at some geese that seemed to follow our truck's path, and I clutched tighter on to his horns to keep from sliding. My whole body rumbled as the beautiful monster beneath me, between my legs, spoke. "I used to dream of flying."

Despite the bass growl, his voice sounded wistful. Longing. My heart ached at the words. All his power, all his strength, and yet some dreams still seemed forever out of reach.

Although…

"I could try? With my power, I mean. I've sculpted wings before…" Cosmetic ones, I didn't say. More like bat wings, and useless for flying, but—

There was no warning. One second I was on his shoulders, flying high and free, the next I was sprawled on my ass on top of a dog bed, his whole body coiled like a spring above me, two enormous clawed hands sunk inches into the metal floor on either side, glowing red eyes inches from my face. I hadn't even felt him _move_.

My breath caught in my throat, staring death in the face. He looked feral, _hungry_.

His voice was disconcertingly soft, in the light of that intense focus. "_Do it_."

A beat, and he slowly withdrew, crouched in front of me, poised like a cat, eyes never leaving mine. His voice was even softer as he added, "Please."

I looked up at the sky through the sunroof, seeing nothing but clouds and stars. The sun had set. A thick cable was tied to the back of the driver cab-thing, semi-taut, quickly vanishing into the sky. It rocked gently, creaking as the eighteen-wheeler moved, trying to maintain a steady speed.

Resting with my sore arms tucked behind my head, legs sprawled out, nestled into a pile of pillows and rugs that smelled like him, I felt good. Worn out, but accomplished. Like I'd brought something good into the world, instead of taking. It was a rare mood for a supervillainess, but well-deserved. I didn't even bother scaring away the crows that had settled inside the trailer near me, and they were being relatively quiet, anyway.

The truck slowed. Shift change, or maybe another pit stop. I'd lost track of time.

The cable slackened, angle lowering.

A minute passed. Two.

There was a faint _thump _on the top of the trailer. I traced the followup footsteps as they crept to the edge of the sunroof. A horned head peeked over it, red eyes glowing dimly against the night sky. He didn't flinch as the loitering birds fled past him, all wings and cawing.

His body moved lightly, sinuously, climbing back into the truck, dumping a thick spool of cable beside him. I could see the billowing flaps of skin newly stretched across his sides, wrist to wrist to ankle to tail. A wingsuit. The world's largest, coolest flying squirrel. A meat kite. My Apex.

I grinned as he picked me up oh-so-gently with four arms, giggled as he snuggled me close to his chest, burying my face into his fur as I hugged him back.

His voice was as near to a whisper as something that large, that close could be. "Lipstick. Whatever you want, it's yours."

I already had everything I wanted, right here, in his arms.

…Except.

"Can you stop calling me Lipstick?"

"No."


	11. Interlude: Doctor Gives New Prescription

The art coursed through her body, ecstatic fire running down her throat, and she barely dropped the vial before her hand smashed it.

_How many days had passed, working on this very moment?_

_Hands wandered across my body, and it took a minute to realize they were mine._

_I surrendered, let the art take hold, and lost myself to time itself._

_Something pulled at my mind, either an hour or a century later, but I ignored it. The brief flash of irritation was lost to the ocean of bliss tearing my flesh apart like hounds tearing apart the fox too slow to win the hunt._

_It pulled again. A scream. Gunfire._

_My eyes, already open, opened again, and I could see once more. The world, desaturated and lonely, washed over my existence, leaching the last vestiges of color from my soul._

_Heads will roll as soon as I find them._

A loud _thump_ overhead, a scream cut off by what sounded like tearing. An unwelcome visitor, then. Vial. Sip. Clarity and focus.

They were under attack.

She struggled to her feet. She was in her studio, pillars of glass tubing reaching to the wooden heavens, burners bubbling, bedsheets wrapped around her like silken chains. A wet sizzling sound from the vial she'd dropped, the art within still slowly dissolving the floor next to her. Carpet and subfloor were gone, and the metal bits inside the concrete were turning to wet ash before her eyes.

She'd spilled the rest of the art, and she couldn't even blame her new best friend, the loud thump person.

Sip. Dexterity, wash away the impurities in her muscles, make her move swift and free. She darted from under the sheet to her gear. The Protectorate had hit her last studio, forced her here, to a decrepit excuse of a Ravens safehouse. The studio was in the basement, no windows to slip out of, one stairway up to an escape, and from the gunfire...

It was time to make her last stand.

Cerulean Nightmare. Don't Wake Up! Dragon's Fire. Would it be enough? She didn't want to go that far, but if they didn't give her a choice... Could she justify that?

A scream outside, the sound of tearing flesh cutting it off abruptly.

_Not the Protectorate, then._

Something hit the door, hard enough to make the hinges scream in pain. Not a wet sound like before. She took a sip to stop her hand trembling. It hit the door again, in time with the beating of her heart, deafeningly loud in her ears.

_Was I going to win this? Was this it? Would my light wink out like this, without finishing my magnum opus?_

_Without apologizing?_

A third time, the door screamed in protest, different this time as it was torn out of the wall. On the other side…

Alex took a sip.

She saw the head first. Peeking down the entrance. It was followed by a body bigger than a car, the top bits out of sight, still upstairs. Spikey, scaley, furry, and big. They craned their head in, taking some of the ceiling on their spike-things. There were more gunshots upstairs, but she saw their tail twitch, and the gunfire stopped. They didn't break eye contact, those glowing eyes staring her down.

A low growl came from their throat, and it took Alex a second to realize they were words. A word, wrapped in a vaguely male deep growl, like a cement mixer falling into a bottomless pit made of gravel. "Hi."

It—he?—paused, nostrils flaring. Sizing her up? No. He nodded a little, and spoke again. "You're the Tinker?"

_The Tinker?_ There were certainly worse words used to describe her. Some of which were even accurate. She took a sip, not quite sure how to answer that. She looked him over again, noted the dark wetness, the little bits of crow feathers stuck to him. Some were as long as her forearm. Ah.

Well _that_ was a pleasant surprise.

Not Protectorate, unless something had gone _way_ wrong. Probably not a hero. No issues killing. Here for her? She knew she had enemies, those jealous of her art, or scared of it. She could understand both, really. People feared what they didn't understand, and if they _did_ understand, they wanted more. Insatiable. Which was he? He'd dispatched her… colleagues was the wrong word, but it would have to do… with casual effort. And yet she was alive. Familiar with her, but she wasn't dead, which meant it was the other option.

_Great_. She took a hearty sip, let the irritation be beaten down by her art. Kidnappers never had the right components. Why did they never understand that one couldn't paint a canvas without… paint?

Except he'd said something, and she hadn't replied. "I see you met Branwen," Alex said, gesturing with the hand not holding a vial. Yes. Conversation, while she figured a way out.

He coughed up a black feather. She didn't get the impression it was an answer, more of a "there's a rapist Changer's feather stuck in my throat" sort of cough. Happened to the best of us.

"Did she suffer?" she found herself asking. Why did she ask that? No. She sipped from a different vial, to quell that bit of her that wanted to know.

His head dropped a little, maybe looking at the feather. Then back at her. "Screamed a lot," he replied. At least that was what she thought he said. _Screened a lot_ didn't make sense.

"She deserved it," she replied, putting a finality into her words. Dead and gone, move on. It took a sip to move on. "You're new."

He nodded. She wasn't sure at which part. But then he growled out, "Ahex."

"No, it's _Alex." Sip_.

His mouth opened a little. Lots of teeth. Closed again. The smaller set of arms beneath his big one pulled out a little metal rectangle, going _tap tap tap_. And then a new voice, polite, computerized, said, "Hello. My name is Apex. Nice to meet you."

Apex. Only a little off from Alex. That would get confusing, then. She'd be doing double-takes constantly now, unless her captor's friends had a better grasp of their tongues. "Apex," she replied, giving him a little nod. Little nods were good. Kept people on the same page better than words. "You aren't here to kill me?"

"Maybe." He seemed totally unconcerned, although it was hard to tell with the tiny fake voice doing the talking for him. "You make drugs." His head turned to one side, then the other, looking around her studio. His nostrils flared again, an audible _whoosh_ as he sniffed. "What's good?"

Ugh. Some were jealous, some didn't understand. She was getting the impression he was both. It took a hearty sip to stop herself from snapping, from upending Cerulean Nightmare into his stupid toothy face. "I make art," she said, struggling to keep her words civil. "If you want drugs, go find a shifty man on a street corner."

He nodded again. Little nods for everyone. "I did. Stopped working." He squeezed further into the lab, ducking low against the ceiling, wrapping his tail around himself to avoid knocking anything over. He was twelve feet tall at the peak of his crystally spikey bits, maybe twice that in length, including tail. In the basement, he had no choice but to corner her, even if he didn't intend to. The tiny voice continued. "If it hurts, or makes me feel things, I want it."

He paused. _Tap tap tap_. "Please."

Interesting. "One of _those_ then," she said, finding herself smiling. A little sip to quell the irritation at misreading the situation; she was doing that a lot these days. Not an assassin, not a kidnapper; a patron, a new friend here to enjoy her creations.

He'd make an _interesting_ canvas, to say the least.

She started digging around, looking for art that would do. Her studio was a mess, hastily-constructed, nothing was in _quite_ the right spot, and she kept forgetting where they were now. It took some digging to find the right vial, a one-off she'd been saving for a special occasion. Branwen dying certainly qualified. His presence was something of a bother, filling her studio, but once she'd realized he was a friend, that became less of a concern. He seemed considerate of her space; who was she to judge?

And then she turned around only to see him sticking one of his big hands into the half-made art in the gas box they'd made her do smelly art in. _Oh that's not good_. She couldn't remember _exactly_ what she'd put in there last, but there was a slight… one hundred percent chance it'd be lethal, and if all the goons were dead she'd have to work over his body, and that would get stinky.

"Um." She pulled ineffectually at one of his crystal spine spike things. "That's a bad idea."

He glanced at her, then pulled his hand out and held it out for her to see, and she stepped back to keep burny drippings from landing on her. His hand was mostly gone, showing dark grey bone, little shreds of dissolving tissue. For about ten seconds, until the half-arted art had finished fizzing. And then it stopped, and went right in reverse, filling up meat and skin while she watched.

A _very _interesting canvas.

He seemed more cheerful after that. Made a low rumbling noise, like a 'yummy' sound at one tenth speed. Humming to himself, maybe. There she went, worrying over nothing. A sip smoothed out the irritation. She would have to adjust her expectations.

She looked at the special occasion vial, decided it would not do. Instead she held out Cerulean Nightmare—carefully, so as not to drop it, or break it with her too close. "If you want a real kick, try this."

He watched her with something that might have been eagerness, propped the vial between his back teeth, shuffled back a few steps from her, then went _chomp_.

For a few seconds, she could only see the faintly confused, then disappointed look on his face. Then his mouth, chin and neck burst into violent blue flames accompanied by a sickening sizzle that made her sip to avoid remembering the last time she smelled that. His head vaporized, but his body didn't fall, instead only slumping over a little, like it was sleepy. He was charring the ceiling, she realized with some dismay. At least it didn't start burning the house. That would make getting out inconvenient.

She tried to count the seconds, lost track after fifteen, but his head was back before she could find her place again. The scales were a bit glossier, a bit darker, between the thick hairs.

He looked at her, tail no longer tucked around his legs, instead waving back and forth behind him, jostling the feet of the metal tables and setting glass clinking. Who's a good boy? He's a good boy.

"Do you want a job?"

"A… job?" She took a sip. That sounded so… mundane.

"Yes. You make things. Use them on me." He paused again. "I fund your lab. I'm loaded, pee sure." He glanced down at the rectangle for a moment. "Pretty sure. And I keep you from being arrested. Protectorate will probably be here soon."

"Studio. Not lab." Sip.

But it was more than that. The last time she'd been offered, well, something like this, it had been shortly after her art had changed, when she'd been naive and desperate, shivering from cold she couldn't stop and hiding from the people chasing her.

Then she'd come here, made art, good art, but also bad art. By the time she'd realized, it was too late. People had gotten hurt, people would never forgive her.

Would this be different?

"I don't want to hurt people," she said. He looked at her funny, head tilted, and she realized that wasn't _entirely_ accurate. "Hurt them nonconsensually, I mean."

"Perfect. I don't want you to hurt people either. I want you to hurt me." He nodded, a bit more enthusiastically than before. Tap tap tapping his big claws on the concrete floor, pitted with art scars. Nervous, or thoughtful? Hard to tell with his general… layout.

"Do you have anything for—" And then he paused dramatically, his voice lowering to a whisper. "Feelings?"

"What feeling?"

"Good ones."

And then there was stomping and shouting upstairs, then downstairs, and the Protectorate was there, and there was shouting, and spandex, and Apex called his lawyer, and more shouting, and cars, and people not being careful with her art, and Apex rolling in it until it stopped exploding, and then rooms and papers and strangers and things started to get very strange and they wouldn't let her sip or make art and the cute boy with the horns kept making it better until it wasn't while Apex made very silly faces and and and—

And then her old life was over, and her new life began.


	12. M : You Conquer With Your Serpent

I didn't understand a word he was saying. Nobody did. All we knew was that it meant everything.

He'd been doing this for an hour, and it had been _all climax_.

Every second was the best of my life so far.

He was better than Baal. Better than GWAR. Better even than Death Strikes A Chord.

It was not a mass. It was what masses aspired to be. It was what _orgasms _aspired to be. Mine, anyway.

I wasn't in the crowd, kicking and fighting for a closer spot, for a glimpse of him through crowds and flames. I was on the stage, just off to the side, out of the way of bustling crew and cameras. Less than thirty feet away from the impossibly beautiful monster, snarling, growling, _howling _to the sky, to the adoring crowd, to _me_. His hands were blurs, impossible to follow. Bass kicks like endless thunder, tom rolls like cacophonous rockslides, cymbal hits like a thousand-car pileup.

The rest of the band accompanied him, fingers dancing over guitar and bass and keyboard, a cascade of lights and sound and raw emotion. Even the raccoon that had perched on top of the crates behind me was in awe, staring with its mouth open.

It was all I could do to stay upright, body moving of its own accord, dancing to the furious, unceasing rhythm.

_Holy fuck these drugs were amazing_.

I said as much to the young Japanese woman keeping me company offstage. 'Happy Pill' in-fucking-deed. She smiled; peaceful, enigmatic, but clearly pleased. She had corrected me, saying it was 'art, not drugs', but I carefully ignored that. The idea of a body as a canvas was... No. It wasn't art. Just chemistry.

Drugs. I didn't normally bother with those sorts of things, really, but I had been nervous. Even after having met the band, after helping set up the stage, after spending nights with Apex—and what nights they had been—being this close to the performance had tied me in knots. Second-hand performance anxiety. She'd seen me, introduced herself, offered something to help me relax. I figured it was all part of the rock and roll experience, and was happy to realize I was right.

"He's happier," she shouted from inches away. It was the only way we could communicate, as much lip-reading as actually hearing. I slowed my dancing, followed her eyes. Apex did seem to have a bit more energy than he normally had at shows, my altered senses notwithstanding.

"Yeah," I shouted back. Watching him, my emotions raced from one to another—pride, joy, excitement, then, mercurially, to doubt, to a low, sickening dread. Memories of another concert, the first and last with... I shook my head, trying to stay in the moment.

Almost as though she could sense the changes, Happy Pill put one hand on my shoulder, eyebrows drawn together in worry. I could just barely make out her words. "Is everything alright? Do you need... an adjustment?" She reached her other hand down to her belt, the pouches on it like Batman's fanny pack, but I shook my head.

"It's nothing," I shouted back. "It's fine," I lied.

Her hand squeezed my shoulder, nothing but genuine concern on her expression, lights dancing across it in sync with the wall of sound all around us. Maybe it was that touch, completely without fear or guile. Maybe it was not having anyone I trusted to talk with besides Apex, who I couldn't exactly discuss this with. Maybe it was just the drugs, but I actually answered honestly, this time.

"I've seen what happened. To the others." I bit my lip, feeling a little more of the overwhelming bliss leak away. "I've already used my power two, three times. I don't know how long…" Ah, shit, my eyes were watering up. Maybe we were too close to the flame jets. She looked like she was about to speak, but I shook my head, closed my eyes, blinking away the moisture. No. Still too much, even like this. No.

But she was still watching me when I opened my eyes again, so I said something else, anything else. "The last few nights have been amazing. He does incredible things with his tongues." I gestured vaguely with my fingers, then gave up trying to express the mechanics of it with such limited tools. "_Incredible_ things. But I don't want to just… take, from him. I hate that he's only doing it for me, and when I offer, he says he doesn't have the parts or the interest. He doesn't feel it! He's only doing it for me," I repeated, hoping she could figure shit out over all the noise. It was starting to feel _too _loud, out here. Maybe it was the comedown. The hell had she given me, anyway?

I was gradually becoming too aware of my body. The aches and pains that had been ignored, slowly gathering, coming back with a vengeance. I felt the stacks of equipment I was leaning up against, watched the crew bustling about, no one else stopping to actually watch the show except me, Happy Pill, and the blond fucker across the stage, probably counting dollars in his head or something. It was uncomfortably warm up here between the stage lights and the flames, in contrast with the cold snap that had followed us from Omaha, and my sweat was drying on my skin, tacky, gross. Every one of my nerves tingled, and the sudden slowdown of the tempo hit me like a bucket of ice water.

Looking up, I saw Kamala in her latex, belting out a solo. The stage behind her went dark, other instruments dying down, one by one. Even the crowd seemed to hold their breath.

Happy Pill followed my gaze, and we both turned to look behind the singer's mournful cry, at the darkened pit of drums, the giant black and gold gong backing up against the rear of the stage, with the monster at its heart.

Two points of red light, turned to face us. To face me.

I was torn between highs and lows, joy and worry. He was mine, and I was his, but…

Happy Pill, on the other hand, seemed to make up her mind about something. She reached into her belt, pulled out two glass bottles from different pockets, narrow, padded. The smaller one, barely the size of my pinky, she popped open, took a sip, took a slow breath. The bigger one, four inches long and one across, she handed to me. It was mostly full, and as I held it up to the sole stage light over Kamala, I saw something deep pink, maybe maroon, sloshing slowly. Thicker than water, like sunscreen. I turned it, and on the foam wrapped around the middle I saw, in neat handwriting, 'for special occasion'.

The solo ended. Lights flashed, flame jets burst, instruments kicked back into high gear, riotous, overwhelming. The crowd's roar crashed over me in relentless waves, threatening to drown me, pull me under.

"Wear gloves," she shouted, voice commanding.

This time Apex joined the aftershow party. Most of the crew lounged on or around him as he sprawled over half of the tent, like he was an enormous stuffed animal. I couldn't blame them, but I was a little miffed, even if I did have the seat of honor, tucked in the crook of his neck. I scratched his head with one hand, rolled the bottle around in my other. The comedown was harsh, and I felt the vibrations in my head as the crew talked, laughed, drank, played cards. The lights were dim compared to the stage, but it still felt like they were jabbing needles in my eyes. Olaf lent me sunglasses, which helped.

Apex's middle hands, a few feet behind me, were losing badly to the crew at poker. His head, though, lifted up a little at the scritches, a very low rumbling shaking my boots, felt more than heard. With surprising gentleness, he tapped my other hand with the edge of his left horn, the sheared-off tip brushing up against the bottle's padding. One red eye seemed to be watching me, an unspoken question.

Still digging my fingertips beneath the fur on his neck, I explained, "Happy Pill gave me this." His eye widened ever so slightly. Not surprise, I thought, but acknowledgement. Was his fur just waving blindly, or was it reaching for the bottle?

My whole body vibrated distractingly as he spoke, my hips pressed into the corner where his neck and shoulders met. "She doesn't give me much anymore." Even at his lowest volume, I could tell the other crew had noticed, heads turning my way before quickly going back to their conversations. Talking a little louder, giving us privacy. His neck curved down, resting his head on a dog bed, looking away from me. "Only works once, each. If at all."

I gripped the bottle tighter, biting my lip, tasting metal. I could… save it. We were doing alright. I didn't need her help. I could find other ways to keep him happy. Right? I glanced over at the tiny little field mouse perched on my shoulder, but he didn't seem to have an answer for me.

"Always fun, though," Apex rumbled beneath me, voice low. "When it works."

_Ah, fuck it_.

In my excitement, I _may _have forgotten to wear gloves.

I woke up with a shock, Black Goat's hand on my arm. It was still dark, and sensations were rippling over me, and the contact of my bare skin against the pillows and cushions of Apex's trailer was so intense that it felt electric. I tried to pull away, but the sudden pain in my lower body was excruciating, and I gasped, reaching up for—

Apex caught my wrist before I could touch Black Goat's arm, gently but firmly. He loomed above me, just on the other side, and despite the low light he seemed… worried. For me?

I grit my teeth, but the electric feelings were passing. Not as intense as Apex's love zaps, anyway. I heard two muffled _thunk _sounds, and he settled slightly onto the pillow pile, before they reversed themselves and he shifted back to his normal crouch.

"What happened?" I asked, and my throat was raw, dry, raspy.

"I'll tell you what happened," Black Goat began, his own voice a bit rough. "I was literally _yanked _out of my bunk in my trailer in the middle of the goddamned night, dragged screaming through camp." His tone and expression were frustrated, but he didn't look at me, turning his head to the side. Why—_oh, shit_. I covered myself, Apex letting go of my wrist once he saw I wasn't going to tear little goat boy to pieces. He continued, "And then, after seeing more of my boss than I'd _ever _wanted to see, I had to fix your fucking dislocated hips!"

My what?

I looked over at Apex, looked down at his hips as though I could see the damage, as though it hadn't already healed anyway, then…

Um.

I, uh.

Wow.

I did good work. Ambitious, but well-crafted.

He seemed to enjoy it, judging by his hungry expression, now that the danger had passed.

Black Goat looked between us—keeping his eyes high—then left without saying another word, picking up a stray cat that had wandered into the trailer behind him.

Apex growled, the sound low in his throat, turning away from me briefly to address the healer.

"Stay nearby."

I heard an aggravated, resigned sigh and the door slamming shut, but then my attention was on bigger things.


	13. I Don't Want To Have To Eat You

It was so peaceful, watching him sleep. Staying awake while he rested, watching his chest rise and fall.

I was a bit too big for the bed, so I just perched on my heels at its edge, chin resting on satin sheets. I'd have expected silk, but he did have to move around a lot.

No one, not his children, not his other wives,_ no one_ dared interrupt my vigil over him; I worried he would feel lonely without his usual company. He seemed restless even in sleep, tossing and turning, filling my nostrils with the scent of his sweat. Maybe he was missing me. I reached out with one scaley hand, careful not to accidentally scrape him with my claws, and rested my palm on his thigh—

He jolted awake and scrabbled away, making small animal noises, eyes wide. His eyes met mine and—

When I came to, the bed was shattered around us, splinters of cheap wood and scraps of cloth strewn about like a bird's nest after a storm. He was pinned up against the wall, hands scraping at the dark, scaley forearm attached to claw wrapped tightly around his neck. How did that happen? I looked around for the culprit, smelled no one, just him, his abject terror, the sharp stink of urine...

A surge of warmth touched my heart, and I realized the claw around his neck _was my own_. My hand jerked back as if burned, and he fell, taking in breaths with deep gasps and coughing violently. I paced back and forth, concerned, careful not to thwap him with my recently grown tail, writhing agitatedly behind me. He loved me despite my atypical appearance, I knew. He saw past the pebbly skin, the six feet of bulging muscles, the mouth full of jagged teeth. He was a kind and generous man to care for me so.

Even if he sometimes made mistakes. Little ones. I could forgive him for using fear on me, startled like he was. It was an accident, just like the smashed bed, the dark bruises on his throat. If only I could heal him like I healed. If only I could cook and clean like his other wives did. If only I hadn't drawn so much attention to him and the rest of the family, forcing us all deeper into hiding. If only...

"I'm sorry," I told him. I reached down to help lift him up where he'd sprawled against the wall. There was a dent in the drywall, where his back had pressed against it. He ignored my hand, climbing to his feet. I watched him expectantly, clasped both hands together in front of me. Tried to make myself smaller, more like his other wives. The guilt was all mine.

"It's… alright," he said, voice hoarse, sweaty and disheveled. There were bags under his eyes, and his normally lanky frame had grown lean. He whispered something in French under his breath—a prayer, perhaps, or a curse. "I'm... sorry I made you afraid. You just… startled me."

I sagged a little with relief, muted, tempered with doubt. That doubt made me ask, even though it was silly, an irrational insecurity. "Do you still love me?"

One of his eyes twitched—poor man was stressed, he really needed more sleep—but his expression shifted to a smile, bared teeth. "Of course." He looked around the bedroom, or what remained of it. I could sense the shadows of heads poking through the doorway behind me, tasted perfume and fear. He cleared his throat, tried to look me in the eyes. "Do you? Still love me?"

I paused before replying. Tilted my head, inspecting him. This time, I actually gave it some thought. For some reason I remembered my failed attempts at cooking for him. The pots I had crushed by accident. The soups that had been spiced to my taste, eating through the bowl. The fire… the gas range, where I'd liked to rest my hands on while making sure nothing boiled over this time, made a mess. I could _see_ the flames, watch them dance over and between my fingertips, knew what they should feel like, but I only had the faintest impressions through my thick skin. Just an idea, a hint of what might have been.

He saw my worry, my doubt. He tried to put on a smile, again, hesitating only slightly as he placed a clammy hand on my cheek. I half expected there to be moisture, but there were no tears. He licked his chapped lips, seemed to focus on me, actually staring his eyes into my own.

"Love me," he commanded, and I could not obey.

The loss, the regret, the pain were all mine, untouched by his power or my own.


	14. But Still I Must Fight

I would have gone alone, but for a couple of reasons. One, getting attacked by overzealous heroes or ambitious villains would have been detrimental to the purpose of this mission. Two, I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. Just vague recollections, informed by half-remembered rites and ancient traditions.

So I had an entourage. The gentle-faced man with the ugly sweater, all smiles and helpfulness. I had the vague sense that he was... talented? Respectably good at _something_. Although from his appearance, I couldn't begin to imagine at what. The woman with the aura of sharp smells… Happy Pill. Shopping for ingredients, complex chemicals, dumped into a basket, skipping from aisle to aisle. The faint whine of an electric wheelchair, straining to carry the bulk of the person steering it with short, stumpy arms. Missing legs. Memories. Pizza.

A thought had me lean down to Pizza, who was setting our pace. "Are you alright?"

He smiled up at me, a faint sheen of sweat on his bald head, but not smelling of stress or fear. Just the jacket and scarf piled on him, no longer needed after the sudden warmth once we had gone inside the grocery store. I delicately plucked the fuzzy wool from where it was looped around his neck with a claw, placing it on the basket sweater-man helpfully held out for me. Pizza's voice was calm, reassuring. "I am fine, my friend. It is nice to not be stared at, for once. Thank you."

I nodded, noting that, yes, most of the concerned looks—mixed disgust and awe—were aimed at me. I ignored them, as always, but was vaguely glad that me drawing attention served a purpose this time. _I_ was the monster, not him.

"Do you know what you want to make?" he asked, reminding me of why we were here.

"I have no idea," I admitted. For some reason an image crossed my mind. Moonlight. Two things sharing a plate. A song. A kiss. "Spaghetti?"

Pizza nodded, approving. Sweater-man chimed in, being helpful, "Is a good easy meal to makes. I can finds a nice sauce for you, writes it down." He grinned easily, showing teeth without malice. "I am sure she will likes it."

I shrugged, an uncomfortable feeling of being distinctly out of my element bubbling up from inside me. An uncommon sensation, usually dealt with by fighting, or… delegating. Leaving it to others. But this was something I should be involved in, right? That was… part of the rite. The ritual. The date.

Sniffing at the air, I was drawn—the rest of the group turning to follow, strangers clearing a path wordlessly—to a section full of fragrant, colorful flowers. Dead, but pretty, until they rotted. Would she prefer them rotted? I wasn't sure. I had conflicting impulses, there. But these had interesting patterns in ultraviolet, extra swirls on top of the soft pinks and yellows, the pale white streaked with subtle colors. They had been… someone's favorite. Sweater-man carefully pulled the ones I was staring at out from the buckets of water, placed them in a bag, nodded approvingly. "Stargazer lilies. Very pretty. I'll puts them in a vase for you whens we get back. You can puts it on the table."

I looked at him for a moment. Table? Right. Those things people sat at. With... chairs.

The uncomfortable feeling grew. So much lost, left behind, discarded.

Pizza reached over and patted my flank with a stubby hand. "You will be fine. She likes you."

I thought of the gifts she had given me. The horn that didn't grow back. The lips I could speak with, without the tablet's soft, irritating voice in place of mine. The view from the clouds, soaring above the highway. The urges, long forgotten, tucked away beneath intertwined cilia, waiting to be rediscovered, shared.

I thought too of the stinging, burning awareness that it was temporary. The certainty, oft-forgotten but never eliminated _this, too, shall pass_. I would adapt, my power would strip away everything that I was—whether it was important to me or not—to prepare me for the next challenge, bigger and badder, just over the horizon.

I knew she was afraid, too. Smelled it on her whenever talk of the future came up. Every time she used her power on me, changed me. We were on a ticking clock, a countdown to being nothing more than a memory, and it was a fight I couldn't win with claws and lightning.

And so, like all things that frightened me, I would charge at it headfirst, screaming and defiant.

"A movie. That's a date thing, right? And… dessert."

Sweater-man smiled, happy for me. Pizza smiled as well, but a little more sadly, having known me the longest. Happy Pill smiled in confusion, having been stopped and escorted to us by security for attempting to dismantle the smoothie machine.

I stared at Lipstick for a long time. She fidgeted under the weight of my gaze, plucking at the fabric of her… dress. Her hair had been done up, vertical, stiff and freshly re-colored, and the makeup around her eyes was more elaborate. Her lips were, as always, black, but they had a bit more gloss to them than usual, beneath the tiny hoops of metal. Her tongue flicked out briefly, nervous. Forked, like mine. She smelled of flowers—not the ones resting on the table—and the sharp tang of fear. She still wore her boots, sturdy, worn leather laced to the knees, with a slight bulge for the tracking bracelet. The familiarity helped.

"You look..." I stumbled around for the right word. "Nice."

"Thanks. You do… too…"

I'd yet to find a tailor who could clothe me in anything that lasted for more than a few minutes, but sweater-man had lent me a tie, wrapping it around my neck in a stubby little knot, the ends dangling below. Her neck was adorned with a skintight leather strap, which I was a little jealous of; stylish, simple, and she had made it herself. From a raccoon, judging by the faint traces of scent on it. It suited her. It was joined by the necklace she made from me, the outlines of its shape barely visible beneath her sweater. She never took it off. I liked that.

For the rest of me, the best I could do was to lay my cilia down in some semblance of neatness. That, and I had Happy Pill help me polish my horns and claws until they were smooth.

I could not remember ever feeling so awkward.

At some wordless signal, we moved to the small table with the flowers on it. There was also a candle, protected from the wind by a little glass cup, and two plates of fresh spaghetti and vegetarian meatballs. One chair, which she sat in, taking a second to adjust the dress first. Black, with dark grey spots, ending just above her knees. It left her shoulders bare, but a wool sweater covered her down to her wrists, and patterned leggings kept her legs warm. They must be new as well; I'd ended up tearing her other pairs.

We sat in silence on top of my trailer for a while. Her sitting in the chair, me crouched beside the table, trying not to make a mess of the spaghetti with my middle hands; it felt like it had been a long time since I'd eaten actual food, much less used utensils, and my body configuration had changed since then. It was all new to me, like so much else.

Around the plain white metal of my trailer beneath us, the world was split into thirds. On one side, the camp—all the other trailers and trucks and a half-assembled stage, lit up a short distance away. A roving city, a traveling circus, its migration paused. Opposite that were empty fields, dotted with wheat rolled up into cylinders, criss-crossed by roads, divided by a highway a mile distant. And above us the sky, empty of clouds in a rare night of clarity, stars twinkling. Finally, at the center of it all, us. Together around a table. On a date. Which was not going well.

Conversation, when it began, was slow and stilted. She complimented the food. I said sweater-man had helped.

I complimented her dress. She smiled, but shifted a little uncomfortably. Said Duct Tape had lent it to her. It didn't seem familiar, but I couldn't remember Duct Tape ever wearing anything but black crew clothes, so I just nodded.

She asked me, sounding a little more confident, about some of the bands she said I'd toured with. She quoted magazine articles, internet videos, rumors that had apparently gone around. Asked what it was like meeting famous people. I couldn't speak to most of it, didn't recognize most of the names. Jon Stewart was a sweetheart; I could say that with some surety. A bit frustrated, a bit disappointed, she pulled out her phone and showed me pictures she had saved, a large collection years old, judging by the way I looked in some of them. Smaller, no fur, eyes that were eyes. I stood with people at press events, attended award ceremonies, even shared a stage with them, but... only one person in ten seemed even vaguely familiar.

"You did an entire collab album with Bad Canary, "The Jailbird Sings," super experimental… nothing?" I could only shrug at the image of me sharing a microphone with a woman with yellow feathers in her hair.

It was disheartening to both of us. This whole… talking, thing. It hadn't been a big part of our... interactions.

I felt stupid. There was a pit in my stomach that had nothing to do with the spaghetti rapidly dissolving into whatever my power did with things I ate, and it wouldn't go away. Eventually I slumped over in defeat as she searched through her phone for more pictures, sprawled myself half over the edge of the trailer, struggling with the unfamiliar taste of surrender. Half a dozen birds flew off, cawing angrily at me for disturbing their perch.

Lipstick got out of her chair, crouched on her heels beside my head. One hand caressed my incomplete horn, fingers tracing the outline of the remnant of our first meeting. The other hand clutched its match, the piece of me hanging around her neck. After an interminable pause, she broke the silence.

"Why?"

I lifted my head slightly so one eye was aimed her way. "Why what?"

"I'm not saying it wasn't… sweet, but this whole thing..." She shook her head. "It's not _us_. This isn't who we are. This is what normal people tell us we _should _be. It's stupid."

I dropped my head again, horn hitting metal with a hollow _thunk_, and she hastily added, "No! _You're_ not stupid. Society is stupid." She took a deep breath, let it out in an explosive sigh. "We're monsters. The rules don't apply to us. We should do what we want, because we can, and who the fuck is going to tell us no?"

It felt like there were some flaws in that argument, but in that moment I just wanted to believe. I reached for her, big arm and little arm pulling her into an embrace, and she went along with it, burying her head into my chest. It smushed her mohawks a little, but neither of us cared.

Then I rolled backwards off the edge of the trailer, eliciting a surprised yelp from her as I corrected mid-fall to land on two legs, two arms, my middle ones holding her tight against me off the ground. She punched me weakly in the ribs in retaliation, but that just made me chuff in amusement. She didn't even use her power.

"Well then," I said, ambling to the back of the trailer, to the pillows within. I tore off my tie, thin fabric snapping. Then her dress, running one claw delicately down the back, peeling her out of it even as I carried her beneath me, much to her appreciation. Shudders and small gasps, bringing warmth to both of us. "What should we do, us monsters, to show we care for each other?"

Her eyes sparkled in the reflected red glow of my eyes, teeth white in the darkness as she smiled. "I have a few ideas."


	15. Interlude: I Am Victory

Harry slumped into The Leaky Tap, a local dive bar that catered to a certain select clientele. It wasn't a formal restriction, and there were some mundane locals rounding out the crowd on occasion, but from some combination of tradition, happenstance and convenience, this was a Protectorate hangout. Small and unassuming, but with a comfortable atmosphere and a wide selection of beers on tap, it also had the benefit of being less than a block away from the local PHQ.

While better known to the public as Singularity when in costume, Harry was, at this moment, just Harry. And Blue, the bartender, is, was, and always would be just the bartender.

The two had an understanding. Stories were traded for alcohol, with the unspoken agreement that said tales never left the mottled brown brick of the bar. For years this exchange was one of the highlights of both of their days. If Blue wasn't married and Harry wasn't painfully straight, the two would have moved in together years ago.

As it was, Blue just watched with a combination of curiosity and concern as Harry trudged his way to his usual barstool and plopped down onto it with a muffled _whump_. Sensing a story incoming, Blue kept up his end of the bargain preemptively, popping open a longneck and laying it down on top of a napkin within Harry's reach.

Harry grabbed it, taking a long pull, then thunked it back down, almost—but not quite—on the napkin.

It was a slow night, and Blue had nowhere else to be. He didn't have to wait long.

"You would not believe the day I've had," Harry started, without preamble.

"Try me," Blue replied, the traditional response. By this point in their relationship, he'd heard a lot, and the suspension on his disbelief was well and truly buffered. He wiped his hands on his dark green apron, tucked a small rag back into his back pocket, smoothed down his bushy gray mustache, then finally settled in to listen, leaning his back against the bar.

"So I was patrolling. Rooftops, not publicity." Harry took another swallow of his beer while Blue accepted the usual twinge of jealousy, knowing he'd never be able to fly. "And I start seeing shadows out of the corner of my eye. Little peeks. Something moving, not sure what."

Blue nodded. He slid the small bowl of spicy peanuts within reach of Harry, who took a fistful with unspoken thanks, popping one in his mouth every few words, chewing with his mouth open.

"I call it in, but it's nothing concrete. So I keep going. Start to catch more glimpses of whatever this thing was. I try to follow it, because it looks like bad news. Horns. Spikes. Claws. And it's _big_. Never a full picture, always darting just around the corner before I could get a good look at it. And I can move fast when I need to, but this thing was greased lightning. Scuttling up walls, hiding in shadows so I'd only realize I'd passed it when I saw a tail heading back the way I came, the works. Straight out of a horror film."

Harry scrunched up his face, five o'clock shadow shifting over his lantern jaw. A tiny bit of frustration entered his voice, which Blue knew was only a small part of what he must have felt. Even out of costume, in jeans and a local sports jersey, Harry kept close rein on himself. The sort of habits a Protectorate leader—albeit of one of the smaller departments—developed over the years.

"At this point console was asking around, looking for matches to the description, but I wasn't getting anything back yet. I couldn't get a solid look." Another peanut was tossed into his mouth, devoured with mechanical efficiency. "Just when I think I'm about to lose it for good, I see it attack. Broad daylight, this thing the size of a bus tackles a woman, picks her up right off the street, in front of a dozen witnesses. I'm shouting, she's screaming, I'm chasing, it's running down alleyways, people have their phones out, it's a mess."

Blue nodded slowly while Harry took another swig. This story had already earned him a second beer.

"I'm calling in backup when I finally manage to corner the thing in a blind alleyway. She's screaming, still alive, so I blast him." Harry made a finger-gun with one hand, closing one eye like he was aiming. Made a '_vorp' _sound with his mouth, miming recoil. Blue had never actually seen Harry use his power in real life, so whenever he heard these stories, he imagined it actually sounded like that. It made the stories more interesting.

"It's still moving, growling, back to me, between me and the woman, who's still screaming. So I blast it again. And again. And _again_." More finger-guns, now with both barrels blazing. Blue raised an eyebrow. Four vorps? Nothing had ever stood up to four vorps before. "Finally, with one last roar, it stops moving." Harry mimed blowing invisible smoke from his fingertips, and Blue could see the exhaustion on his face, the circles under his eyes. Harry never mentioned more than half a dozen vorps in any one of his stories; seemed to take a lot out of him. Blue nodded again, satisfied on Harry's behalf.

"My aim is good, and the woman is still groaning, but quieter, so I think, 'score, damsel in distress saved'. Chalk up another one for the good guys." Harry paused to finish his beer. Blue had the replacement on the bar—on top of the first napkin—before Harry set the first one down on the polished wood.

"She's pinned beneath the monster—" Blue frowned a little at Harry's insensitivity, but the man just waved him off. "Don't give me that look, I don't care if it was a cee-fifty-three, it looked like a bear fucked an alligator in a nuclear power plant. _Anyway_, she's pinned, exhausted, clothes torn, maybe in shock. And you know what she says when I try to pull her out from under it?"

"Thanks?"

"Hell no. She said, and I quote, 'For fuck's sake, give me a minute to enjoy the afterglow'."

Blue paused. "Really?"

"Yeah. Apparently I interrupted an entirely consensual public dicking. _Participated _in it, even, hearing her talk about it."

The bartender was at a loss for words. Harry looked a bit dazed, retelling this story, but his second beer was untouched, and Blue didn't know what to do. He settled on a slightly uncomfortable silence, which Harry eventually broke, voice distant.

"You know the best part?"

Blue raised one graying eyebrow. "It gets better?"

"Yeah. She asked me for my number. Apparently my power is 'good enough for a repeat performance'. And then slipped me a Benjamin for not giving her 'another' public indecency citation." He reached into his pocket, then slapped the alleged hundred dollar bribe on the bar as proof. Blue didn't reach for it. The exchange was still in place, and his companion was earning those drinks.

At this point, at least, Blue knew the traditional words to say at the end of a tale like that. "Jesus, Harry. Only you."

"Right?"

Even though the ritual was complete, curiosity compelled Blue to ask a rare followup question. "And then, what, you just left them there?"

"I had to find a tarp first. He'd fallen asleep and she was... pinned there, until he woke up."

Blue snorted. "Typical man."

Harry just sat there in silence, contemplating his life choices.


	16. Direction Unraveled

It was dark, and the train tracks stretched from horizon to horizon. A tunnel of trees, with square patches of farmland slicing the plains into neat little packages. The tracks trembled beneath my feet with distant echoes, but the train had passed long ago. For a long time I waited there, listening to cicadas fill the air with their unending hymn, the moonlight painting everything in shades of blue, silver, and black.

And then I found myself running. Making my feet light, settling into a six-clawed gallop, I ate up the terrain for miles and miles. At first it was on the train tracks, sending my own vibrations through the steel rails like raindrops on a metal roof. Then I took a sharp right on an unnamed country road, dust flying in my wake. Fireflies danced in the air around me, a tunnel of stars through which I warped space and time.

I vaulted a tractor, heading down the same dusty roads, cutting a swath through the moonlight with the artificial sunbeams of its headlights. It swerved when I flew overhead, but didn't crash. Good.

After an unknowable time—the moon had dipped overhead, but still shone on the dusty paths barely worthy of being called streets—I found myself on a battlefield. Craters, overgrown with untended tall grasses, their rough edges smoothed over like world war one trenches. Long streaks torn into the ground, ending in rusted farm equipment, long discarded and left to decay, not worth the salvage. Shattered husks of storage sheds, left hollow and peeled open like tin flowers. And a church, burned and ruined, gaping holes where walls had been, the steeple leaning precariously, bell cracked and tilted, pulled by gravity that would eventually claim its prize.

Bricks crumbled underfoot as I slowed, carefully making my way inside. The splinters of polished wood that might have been floors or pews made soft noises as I stepped over and through them, like sand through an hourglass, or waves on a distant shore. A few pieces of glass stained the moonlight from the large window beneath the steeple, but none of that was important.

One wall was a bit less worn than the others, relatively untouched. Plain brick, laid before the church expanded around it, a remnant of growth still left over, essential but forgotten. Teenagers had been here somewhat recently, judging from the cigarette butts, discarded and broken beer bottles, and the torn condom half-buried under moth-eaten, stained sleeping bags. The traces of their passage were faint, sharp smells that couldn't quite overwhelm the burned, rain-soaked wood, the scent of rot and mold, the still-living rats that bunkered in the walls, scurrying to safety at my footsteps.

One brick in the wall was loose, although it appeared no different than any of the others.

Behind it was a small, cloth-wrapped bundle, soaked in dark ichor. It _reeked_. This close, the scent that had drawn me across miles of featureless countryside was nearly overwhelming, a beacon to my senses. It was me. My blood, old but pungent. It tasted like victory, like triumph, like dreams.

Inside the bundle, carefully unwrapped, was a note. Handwritten, spidery and awkward, speaking to me from another time, another place. Inside the note, a small piece of plastic, metal and solder. A flash drive. A gift, containing unknown treasures. One that would take more than I had on me to uncover.

I looked around, then, as though seeing the ruined church for the first time.

Took in the wreckage, the regrowth. The monument to conflicts past and present.

Leaving the cloth behind, I took a few steps away, took in deep breaths through my nostril slits. Tasted the air. Tried to remember the position of the moon. Nothing smelled familiar, and the moon had moved, so…

I had no idea where I was. Or where I was going.

Which meant that all paths were equally valid.

I chose a direction and started running.


	17. M : We Reject Our Earthly Fires

"So, how much longer do you want it?"

Burnout shrugged a little, sitting in the folding chair, his back to me, his head in my hands. I was tugging at his scalp, growing out his bald spot, little touches of my power. His hair was still dark, but I had a few colored powders I could smudge into the roots to permanently change that, if he wanted. So many possibilities.

"I can always cut it again later, right?" He seemed calm, but a bit of fidgeting made me think he was a little nervous. He wasn't _entirely _wrong to worry, I thought. We were both supervillains, after all.

"Any thought of horns?" I kept my voice as casual as I could, but he still stiffened. "It'd be easy." I talked quickly, trying to keep him from dismissing it outright. "Could be small. And it would be pretty reversible."

He leaned forward, his already-lengthened hair falling over his shoulders, and I carefully pulled my hands away, not trying to hold him in place. Twisting his head around to look up at me, his eyes were narrowed, calculating. "How small're we talkin' here? Covered with a hat if I was going out on the street? And what do you mean, _pretty _reversible?"

"It's like working with clay," I hedged, running one hand across my own mohawks, wishing I could change my own hair so easily. "Sometimes you can't help but leave smudges. Fingerprints. It'd be pretty close. Promise." I had gotten a lot better since… I had gotten a lot better, with practice.

The stray cat winding its way between my legs meowed at me, but I knew better; I'd seen it eat a mouse not half an hour ago. Greedy little shit. Plenty of other suckers nearby if it wanted an easy meal, begging for scraps.

We were backstage, taking a union break from setup. Burnout had finally gotten to know me well enough to ask me about my power, and we took the opportunity to find a quiet spot by hospitality to give a more constructive, hands-on demonstration. It was still just past noon, so we had time, even without Mr. 'I-get-off-on-tax-forms' cracking the whip. Duct Tape was making rounds on the golf cart, wrangling stagehands while Burnout rested, and most of the band was rehearsing, still too early for sound checks. I could hear the wail of guitars echoing through the canyons of crates and giant spools of cable.

Before Burnout could reply, there was a new group of people making their way backstage. A van with what I assumed was a local news station logo splashed on the side was parked not too far away, back doors open, disgorging a small horde of techs and other people in labeled polos. One man in an ill-fitting suit, doing his hair, grinning into a mirror. A cameraman, checking his gear. A lot of nervous energy, restless movement, looking around like yokels in a big city. Amateurs.

"Did lawyer-man approve this?" I asked, maybe a tiny bit judgemental.

"Law—Kurt? Dunno. He does this sometimes. Maybe it's in an email I ain't checked yet. He's off doing his 'lawyer-man' thing offsite." He pulled out his phone, a heavily-ruggedized brick with cracks on the screen, but before he confirmed anything they were there, aiming a camera at us, cheap-suit-guy waving a microphone under my chin. His teeth were uneven, his hair greasy, and I was amazed they would trust someone like this with the weather, much less covering Gold Mourning.

"Kenneth with Channel Four News. What is it like working with Apex?"

Burnout and I just blinked at each other. The camera was pointed at us, a small crowd of AV nerds spreading out behind it.

He spoke before I did, climbing out of the chair, running a hand through his now-glorious locks. "Working with Apex is a privilege. He's a great musician, a talented writer, and a good friend." That sounded rehearsed, and nothing at all like Burnout. Actually, I was pretty sure I'd heard that exact quote from previous interviews. Trust Burnout to preach the party line; saved me the trouble of trying to come up with an answer or, god forbid, trying to put my relationship with Apex into words suitable for the news.

There were a few more questions along that vein. A few of the AV nerds wandered away a little, some towards hospitality, some towards—

"Hey, you're not allowed back there without an escort," Burnout called out. They hesitated, then stopped just at the invisible boundary between back of house and backstage. One of the women loitered at the catering table, stealing a donut.

"And you, you haven't spoken much. How did you join the Gold Mourning company?" I turned back from the nerds to see that greasy news guy had pointed his mic at me, the camera now uncomfortably close. I flinched back, but tried to mask my discomfort. This wasn't live, was it? I wasn't even in _costume_, I just had my mane pulled back—hadn't run into any iguanas or snakes on the road big enough for a tail, and _shit _they were waiting for me to say something _fuck _this is something I'd prepared for once upon a time _damnit_—

"Um." Great opener. Maybe they could edit this part out. "The usual way, I guess." There. Nice and vague, not inaccurate. Not headline material, but again, I wasn't in costume. I really wished the blond fucker had given us some kind of warning about this beforehand. Had there been a memo I'd missed or something?

Kenneth grinned, baring his fucked up teeth, looking entirely too satisfied with my discomfort. "So you tried to claim the title of Slaughterhouse Slaughterer for your own, then. And clearly _failed_."

I narrowed my eyes at him just as Burnout widened his. "The fuck is this shit?" I asked, but Burnout was already pulling his phone back out with one hand, lighting his other abruptly with green flames up to the elbow.

I felt something cold in my stomach.

Kenneth's arm. Metal. His crooked teeth smiling down at me.

_Fucker just stabbed me_.

* * *

"What did you mean, before?"

We were naked—well, he was always naked, I was just _also _naked, except for the horn necklace—and cuddling on the pillow pile in his—our?—trailer. And by cuddling, I meant I was half-buried beneath him, using him as the world's sexiest blanket. Even when he made himself light, he was still the size of a bus, so he was half-propped on one of his big arms so he wouldn't crush me. It had taken some trial and error, some enthusiastic experimentation to figure out what worked and what didn't; we were figuring out our grooves together, kinda literally. I certainly appreciated his enthusiasm, tonight, even if my sore muscles protested. Fights got him riled up like nothing else.

He just made a questioning rumble that I could feel in my stomach, my whole body vibrating. If I wasn't so exhausted, it might have made me lose my train of thought, but I persisted.

"After the attack. What you said." No response. "To me," I clarified.

There was a long pause, where if it weren't for the lack of snoring I'd have thought he might have fallen asleep again. I was going to go for a light punch to the ribs—careful as always not to smudge the canvas, so to speak—but then he shifted, lifting his weight off of me, rearing back enough to look at me with the two faintly red-glowing pits where his eyes should be. I crossed my arms at the sudden chill, waiting.

"I shouldn't have said that," he rumbled, his equivalent of a low whisper.

* * *

"For the Nine!" I heard one of the news van people cry out, before transforming into a… crab-turtle thing, thick concrete shell with jagged spikes of splintered wood, loops of cables for muscles, forklift prongs for claws. Sent the catering table flying with a backswing. Screams, shouts, people running, explosions...

Of all the stupid, ironic bullshit...

I was not going to be killed by _fucking Ninnies_.

'Kenneth' had transformed as well, cheap suit exploding from the inside like an industrial shredder, revealing something sharp, spindly and inhuman beneath. His upper torso and head were the normal kind of ugly, but everything beneath was scissor-edged blades and long, skinny, spear-tipped legs, absurdly top-heavy, teetering back from my outreaching hand. I staggered, but the hand-knife in my stomach held me back, a blinding point of pain radiating like lightning out from it. I tried to pull it out, but couldn't. _Stuck_. And then he reared back his other spear-arm, too many joints, his teeth bared in a disgusting, smug smile.

I lunged again, desperately trying to reach that self-satisfied fuckface—

There was a sound like a tiny chainsaw revving as the cat jumped up on to the back of his head, a ginger blur, throwing him off balance, moving him forward just as my hand grasped—

We staggered apart, me clutching my hands to the suddenly empty wound in my stomach, an ice-cold, breath-stealing agony. He was crouched low on too many knees, metal spear hands scrabbling at his face, where his mouth and nose had been replaced by smooth, concave skin.

Die choking, _asshole_.

* * *

"Why?"

He couldn't look me in the eye anymore, turning his head towards the back of the trailer, the door cracked open, a faint whistling wind accompanying the low drone of road passing beneath us. I knew he could still see me, though. "You know why."

I felt a cold that had nothing to do with the lack of his body heat and everything to do with the lack of _him_. Words crawled out of my throat, a hoarse whisper. "You're just waiting till you can't get any more out of—" _me _"—my power." I hated how my voice cracked in the middle.

He made a sound that started in his chest and stayed there, something like a garbage disposal being run empty for a second. A sound of disgust? Frustration? Was he already getting sick of me?

"It's not like that."

I glared at him, offended he would try to waffle out of this. "What _is _it like?"

That deep vibrating growl again. Clearing his throat? "It always happens. No matter what I do."

Setting my jaw, looking up at him staring off into the distance, I asked the question I was terrified to hear answered. "What happens?"

* * *

"I'll kill all of you motherfuckers!"

A streak of green fire was followed by an agonizing scream and a small explosion as one of the Ninnies burst into brilliant flame. Burnout was screaming obscenities, incoherent, throwing fireball after fireball at the murdering shitheels, always seeming to miss or sputter out when it got too close to crates or equipment. He turned to me, eyes wide, radiating green light. Pointed one flaming hand at me, pausing his tirade long enough to shout out, "Stay down! Wait for Bee Gee!"

_Fuck that!_ I wasn't—every step sent jolts of muted pain through me, electric, already worryingly dulled but still leaving me gasping—I wasn't just going to lie down. I just… I just needed to get the fuckers in arm's reach. I stopped, looking for someone to—

Someone shoved past me, and I whipped out a hand to grab their wrist, _pulling_—

The fucking camera guy screamed as he took his next step with his arm shredded, his hand, wrist and forearm whole in my grip, but bones and strips of meat torn from his shoulder like too-tender brisket, fatty and falling apart. I dropped it, staggered back a moment as he fell, tumbling, dropping the camera and curling into a ball around his bloodless, destroyed shoulder. That wasn't how—I'd never—

I couldn't—

* * *

"I will forget you."

There. Plain as the horns on his head, the nightmare I'd been dreading since my first day with the crew. The ticking doomsday clock counting the seconds until I didn't matter anymore, went back to being… just another _Ninny_. Images of metal claws, a smeared face flashed through my mind, and I shook my head, letting anger well up inside me, smothering sick feelings. I reached out with my foot, rubbing a part of him. He stirred, a low growl rumbling through him, head briefly looking down at me with that _hunger _I'd never get tired of.

"You'll forget this?"

I could see him calm himself down, tail stilling behind him where it had briefly started to brush through parts of the pillow pile. He looked away again. _Damnit_. "Had one before. Didn't last."

Shit fuck damnit. "I helped you _fly_."

That frustratingly vague throat growl again. Coughing? Laughing at me? "You did."

"And?"

He covered his face with one of his big claw hands. His nostrils flared, taking in a deep, long breath. His tail twitched like it wanted to whip out, but he stopped it. I saw the spikes anyway, normally concealed, now out, ready to punch holes in steel.

* * *

More screaming. Some of the other Ninnies had transformed. Others lit up with internal light, or hovered in the air, or sent out ribbons of Christmas tree tinsel that sizzled when they hit things. It was a fucking mess, and—

Tinsel-bitch whipped a hand my way, sending a fresh wave of streamers, and I caught them with—

Kenneth spasmed noiselessly, head lolling back, eyes so wide I could see the whites all the way around the iris. I had my arm up to the elbow buried in his shoulderblade, through the inside of his upper arm, his spear-hand twitching with every movement of my fingers. He was so light, I'd barely even noticed I'd grabbed him. I flexed my fingers, felt his spear-limbs shift in response, and set my sights on ribbon girl. Her streamers took a second to reel back, and I didn't give them a chance.

I split her in half from crotch to crown, and she peeled apart. Like a banana. And then burst into brilliant… _blue _flames?

Happy Pill had come out of one of the trailers, wearing nothing but underwear and a bandolier. Her expression was eerily calm as she threw bottle after bottle at the bastards, some of them exploding, some of them choking on thick green smoke, one melting like day-old ice cream. She sidestepped a bubblegum-pink beam, then was tackled out of the way of the next by Black Goat, who was wearing nothing but his horned mask and some tighty whiteys.

My vision went white, and a crack of thunder nearly deafened me a fraction of a second later. Four of the attackers were down: concrete shell guy cracked in half, screaming; pink beam man convulsing, charred and smoking on the ground; the human-shaped storm cloud had straight up exploded. A blur of spikes and black-red fur leapt in the middle of the action, spinning claws and teeth.

"He's here! He's he—" A screaming Ninny was cut off as Apex's tail, spikes extended, tore his upper body from his legs without so much as slowing. And Apex… he was laughing. Roaring, wordless bloodlust, so loud it drowned out the screaming, explosions, the green inferno's crackling, _everything_.

Only one attacker still stood after another devastating blast of thunder, a hulking shape with a body made of twisted wrought iron. He had a cage for a chest, wrapped around a rapidly spinning ball of purple energy, rattling against the bars like a bird trying to break free. A motion, like throwing a football, and _streaks _of blinding energy whipped out from him, disintegrating everything they touched, seemingly at random. One lanced towards me—

Stab-hands convulsed one last time, back arched as he began to crumble to dust—

I kicked him off of my arm, the movement doubling me over as the pain in my stomach sent me gasping, and then Apex was there, standing between me and the beams, the purple energy lighting him up until I could see every hair in profile before me, the crystals on his spine glowing bright white as he started to disintegrate around the edges—

I called out, wordless, as he leaped, heading _right into the beams_—

All sound died in my throat as only a crystal hit the ground, tumbling, clattering on the concrete as it landed. Three feet long, half as thick, faceted, it looked like the biggest of his crystal spine spikes, big enough to take up most of his chest. It… he was…

Even the remaining Ninny seemed shocked at what they'd done. There was a brief pause as the world held its breath…

* * *

Apex took another deep breath through his flared nostrils, then slowly lowered his hand. His eyes were fixed on the back door of the trailer. Was he actually fucking walking away from me? In the middle of this… fight?

Sure enough, one clawed foot thudded on the pillow pile, nearly squashing it into the metal floor. Then another step, leaving the trailer, leaving _me_.

"So you've had others. I get it," I called out after his retreating back, words rushed, desperate to let him know _I understood, I really did_. I wasn't the jealous type. He didn't have to leave me behind to be with anyone else. He had to do his thing… I just wanted…

I _demanded _to stay by his side.

"How many of them were like _me_, Apex?"

He paused halfway past me, mere feet from the back door.

"I don't remember."

* * *

"You stupid fuck!"

Burnout hurled fresh obscenities and a ball of green fire at the iron person, exploding into violent, white-hot flames as it hit. They didn't even seem to notice, shoulders slowly melting, just staring at the crystal as it glowed with purple energy, swirling inside it, brighter and brighter. It rattled, clattering on the concrete, vibrating with power.

Vines erupted from it, whips made of corded muscle or bone, grasping, _reaching_. It looked like roots growing in ultra fast-forward, the tentacles lashing out, growing thicker and denser with every breath, dragging the crystal towards the last standing Ninny…

Who blasted it again, sending the ball of light in their chest spinning, diminishing with each spiraling beam that hit the core of what had been and was rapidly becoming Apex. The crystal soaked in the energy, absorbing it, growing its meat shell even faster until… my baby, whole and restored and _royally fucking pissed_, stood in front of the wannabe Slaughterhouse.

His crystal, now just jutting out at the peak of the arch of his back, still glowed a brilliant, eye-searing purple, but so did his eyes, and his mouth, and it was open wider than I'd ever seen it, the light growing brighter and brighter until—

A tightly-focused double-helix of purple beams erupted with a roar like a volcano erupting, washing over the imposter, the failure, the would-be king. They were gone, nothing but ash. So was the stack of crates behind _them_, and the concrete wall behind _those_, and half of the fake or stolen news van behind _that_, rapidly crumbling to dust.

The beam ended. The glowing faded. He was breathing hard, whole body quaking with the motion, like tectonic plates. And then his head turned towards me, and…

Black Goat let out a high-pitched scream as he was grabbed and carried across the thirty foot leap to my side, placed gently where—I hadn't even realized I'd fallen, but he was there, hand on my stomach, his whole body shaking, eyes wide. I looked down to see a nose and a mouth, roughly smeared over my wound, now peeling off—

I looked up instead at Apex, stronger than death, the most beautiful monster…

The purple glow had dimmed, his spine crystal no longer swirling with those disintegrating energies, but when he looked back down at me, his eyes had a more purple tint, and the occasional jolts of lightning that coursed over his waving fur had a matching hue. He growled, low in his throat, a purring satisfaction I'd only rarely seen in the midst of the afterglow, and said…

"_I'm not done with you yet."_

* * *

"What if I'm not done with _you _yet, motherfucker!?"

He had opened the door, the headlights of following cars lighting him in profile, filtering through the crystals on his back, cloudy skies framed around him. One of his hands rested on the closed door, the last thing keeping him from falling through, out of the trailer. Away.

Birds cawed angrily at him from their perches inside the trailer, loud, accusing.

He let loose another buried growl, its meaning irritatingly unclear. Without turning, he said, "There will always be a place for you here. With the band."

And then he was gone, leaving me naked and cold on our—his—bed, only the sound of panicked honking and the screech of tires following in his wake.


	18. Stand Before The Spotlight

The room was green.

There was a small buffet, though, which was nice. I didn't feel hungry, but grabbed a bagel anyway. It smelled good. So did the coffee, but I didn't drink it. The scent was always better than the taste.

I could also smell people nearby. The air was filled with traces of bodies, sweat, anticipation. Murmurs, shuffling, all around the room, behind the two doors, one to my left, another to my right. There was a couch, which I eyed but didn't sit on. My scales were too sharp, my tail awkward. Faint speech came from the television screen mounted next to one of the doors, adorned with a red light and a stenciled 'Entrance 3' sign.

That was a familiar voice. The Daily Show? Nice.

The opposite door opened with a creak. A harried-looking young woman with a headset and a clipboard stuck her head through, flashed me a tired smile. "Mister Apex? You're on in sixty. Right through that door when you hear your cue."

I stared at her for a long moment. She met my gaze, although I wasn't seeing her through my eyes, anymore. I saw her from different angles, a composite, my view shifting slightly with the movement of my scales. I watched her as she coughed into her fist, glancing at the screen behind me.

"I can stay and give you your cue, if you'd like," she offered. When I tilted my head at her she stepped inside, glanced at her watch, at the clipboard. She didn't even look at the food, or the couch. Very businesslike.

"You'll do fine," she reassured me, giving me another tired grin, although I wasn't sure why. "If you get nervous, just read from the prompter. It's all softball questions anyway, pre-approved with your manager."

I couldn't quite follow what she was talking about, but I found a bagel speared on one of my claws. Popped it in my mouth, swallowed it whole. Whiplike tongues pulled it deeper into my throat when it threatened to get stuck. It didn't make me feel any more or less hungry.

She shuffled closer, then edged around me to the opposite door. Not because she seemed frightened of me; more like she was respecting my personal space. Polite of her. One of her hands rested on the door handle. The talking on the screen, through the walls, grew a little louder. An announcement of some sort, perhaps. She watched the screen, and when the applause started she pulled open the door, gesturing for me to go on with one last encouraging smile.

I squeezed through, past her, ducking to fit. It was dark at first, but the sound of the crowd cheering was a cacophony that drew me forward, towards the lights, along the arrows made of reflective tape on the ground. And then…

I froze.

_Holy shit, that's Jon Stewart._ Young, but with flecks of gray in his five o'clock shadow, at his temples. A soft smile, walking towards me across the stage. The studio stage. There was the desk, and the backdrop, and the audience on risers, with electronic equipment full of sharp ozone and winding rivers of cables and gaffer tape. I saw myself on vanity monitors, eight feet of stunned, awkward monster.

Jon approached, reaching out a hand, half handshake, half welcoming gesture, leaving me the option. His smile was warm, friendly, undeniably familiar in a way that made my heart ache. Grey suit, white shirt, grey tie, and the faint smell of deodorant and hairspray.

I shook his hand carefully, dwarfing it within my long-clawed grasp, and his grin widened, the crowd's roar—fading slightly at my pause—redoubled as he gave it a firm shake and led me back to the desk.

There wasn't a chair for me there. It had been replaced with a large, overstuffed bean-bag. Thick, tear-resistant cloth. Also familiar, but from a very different place. Must have come with me. I curled up on it, letting my upper body sit somewhat upright, propped up on my knuckles to match Jon, who sat behind that long, polished-wooden surface, extra screens half-hidden within that only we could see.

"Nice to see you! Thank you for being here," he began.

"Thank you," I rumbled out. I could smell a sudden, faint tang of fear from the crowd at my voice, but nothing from Jon. There was a flicker of movement that caught my eye—caught my _vision_, and I focused on it, seeing words appear, white on black. _It's a pleasure to be here, Jon_, it said.

"I love your show," I said, nearly getting through the words without mangling the 'v' sound. Ventriloquism, when you were your own dummy. I felt a small buzz on a low-slung pouch I'd forgotten about; my tablet. A reminder that I could use its voice instead of my own. I didn't want to. "I used to watch it every night. Big fan." Those words were harder, but he just leaned back a little, modest, pleased.

"Quite possibly my biggest fan," he joked, gesturing at the height difference between us. "But no, that's pretty incredible coming from someone who packs concerts with tens of thousands." He made a quip about attending my latest show, how I might have seen him; how he was the one with the horns, in the back. Several loud shouts stood among the laughter from the crowd, a few folks bearing their own horned hats, plastic headbands. Fans.

I took in the scene, reveling in the new perspective. Sitting next to that desk, facing the cameras, seeing all of the little details of the studio, the lights, the smells, the bustle of activity normally just out of sight. Muffled voices echoed through multiple headsets, coordinating all of the cogs and gears of the production. Keeping the show moving.

He returned to the scripted questions. I read the prepared responses from the teleprompter once or twice, when I was too awestruck to come up with something on my own.

"Your look is always changing. The eyes, they're new?"

I tasted copper. Heard screams, increasingly desperate demands turning to wordless screams of pain. Flashes of a woman, flickering static, hallucinations that _were _and _weren't_ at the same time. Only memories, both faded and vivid, more impressions than scenes. There were words, white on black, paused while I hesitated.

"I can't see through them, anymore." I tapped one large claw on a red pit where my left eye had been, touching thick skin, hearing squeamish sounds from the audience. Words bubbled up from within, opposed by the deflections transcribed for me to read. "The Fallen. In... Texas."

Jon leaned in, curious. He had to know we had gone off script, but it seemed he wanted to know, to share this with the world. "The Endbringer cult."

I nodded. "One of them could control me, with eye contact. Another would make me see things. Other powers. All dangerous. So I see through my skin." I paused. Blood and darkness. "They're dead now."

He didn't ask if I killed them. Maybe it was the cameras. I wondered if this would be cut.

I decided I didn't care.

The crowd was eating it up. Jon seemed engaged, interested—but then again, that was just the kind of man he was. I tried not to let it go to my head, but I said things as they came to mind. Let the editors earn their keep. We talked about my body a little bit longer, more about the difficulties in adjusting than the particulars—he compared it to the sounds his knees made when he first got up in the morning, aches that weren't there in his twenties and thirties. So relatable. Made me feel less like a monster. More like a person. I needed it. Saw the teleprompter flicker and shuffle words around, trying to keep my words professional, rehearsed. I defied it.

"You know what it is too I think that, the fans, their insatiability, once people get a hold of it… they don't realize the process, like—it takes a long time, and a lot of energy to write your music, those complex operatic pieces, very vivid, very explicit, and I imagine that's difficult," Jon said, gesturing with a pen in his hand, nearly bumping the dark blue mug on his desk. A small grin. "Or do you just have a team of little mini-Apexes that are just in the back room"—he mimed bending over a keyboard, typing furiously, little growling sounds—"just pounding away?"

I chuckled, the sound like rocks tumbling in my gut. "Doesn't everybody?"

"Well," he said, glancing sidelong at the camera, deadpan. "We call them indentured servants." The audience laughed.

"They're called interns, I think." More laughter.

"That's right, they're called—but your lyrics, your songs, they're very evocative, full of imagery and—where do you come up with all that? Gold Mourning. Where does it all come from?"

The prompter was blank. Not a prepared question.

I looked down, at myself. Claws as long as a normal human's hands, carefully folded so as not to scratch the floor, weight pressed on the knuckles to keep my torso upright. A chest of thick cords of muscle, thick, twisted like snakes beneath shifting scales. A tail, less controlled, spikes scraping furrows into the dark tile as it curled back and forth slowly. No answers there, in this monstrous shell. Just a hunger, sated but not extinguished, and a need; wordless, directionless, but always there in the back of my mind.

Then white text on a black screen. _I still dream, Jon._

I spoke the words, tasting them as I did the sweat and excitement in the air, felt my tongues twist around the sounds. The next sentence I said in unison with the prompter.

"Despite everything else I've lost of my humanity, I still dream."

The interview wrapped up shortly after that, passing by in a blur. We had gone long over time, but Jon assured me that there would be an edited version for showtime, and an extended release of the whole thing for the fans.

The crew was displeased with me. One man had his arms crossed, one polished shoe lightly tapping the tile floor… Kurt. Someone else, a woman furiously typing into a phone, not making eye contact but radiating irritation. Only one person didn't seem to mind. Large, bald, his bulk overflowing the edges of the custom electric wheelchair. His arms were stubs, newly grown, unfinished. He looked up at me with faint concern.

"You are remembering, Apex."

I nodded, my throat tight. "Yes."

******"****Do you want—"**

**"****Yes."**


	19. M : The Gods Weep In The Night

I spent entirely too much time laying in the pillow pile, after he left.

I was too agitated to sleep, so I stopped trying. Instead, my eyes drifted over to the collage. I'd caught Apex looking over it some mornings, when we'd woken up around the same time. It seemed a morning ritual of his.

Amidst a scrapbook's worth of ticket stubs, fan letters and other mementos, there were two dozen pictures. Some of them I recognized, printed-out versions of photos I had saved myself, once upon a time. Big-name celebrities. Shaking hands with Jon Stewart, flexing with Terry Crews, pretend-pouncing on Steve Irwin. Some were people I didn't know, smiling, sometimes dwarfed in his embrace, sometimes perched on his back or hanging from his arms. He was so small, once. Almost human.

Others were more candid, clearly polaroids or cellphone selfies. Half of them were out of focus, partially obscured by an errant claw, or both. Apex and Burnout, Apex half on fire, the photo badly washed out from the bright green flames. Apex and Duct Tape, taken from her point of view, perched up on his shoulders so she could fix a broken stage light, her tongue out, throwing up devil horns with her free hand. Apex and Happy Pill, her smiling beatifically while Apex writhed on his back behind her, tongue lolling out, legs and arms half sticking up in the air, fur a technicolor rainbow, clearly high off his tits. Apex and Pizza watching a movie at a drive-in, their silhouettes lit up from the silvery glow of the projector. It was some action movie, judging from the man in the black domino mask and bandanna onscreen, wielding a rapier.

Apex and me, my cheeks flushed, hair wild, body pressed to the ground, everything below my bare shoulders covered by him, silently snoring. The edges of cop cars were clearly visible in the background, red and blue lights coloring his fur.

_Damnit_.

I didn't actually have anywhere to go. I technically had a bunk with the other crew, but I wasn't about to face them, ignore their questions about why I wasn't staying with him in his trailer. It bothered me to think I hadn't even considered a backup plan, but shit, why would I have needed one?

That fucking bastard. That beautiful, arrogant, gorgeous, selfish bastard.

It was late at night when we stopped to set up camp. Most of the crew passed out quickly, and I wasn't in the mood to join any of the poker games or drinking sessions of the ones who didn't, even if I could have faced them without exploding. I considered finding Duct Tape, but the thought of her indifference—or worse, her pity—drove that thought out of my mind. Plus I had the weird feeling she didn't like me very much.

When I finally grew too restless to stay in the trailer, I discovered it was _cold_. Snow drifted down, not heavy enough to stick, but enough to make the sweater I'd dug out from beneath the pillows and cushions chilly and damp. I eyed the warmth and light of the crew trailer jealously, but resisted, instead huddling beneath the overhang of one of the other campers. Might have been the one with the impromptu jail cell I'd stayed in my first night with… with the band. Birds cawed miserably overhead, perched on the roof of the camper, just as unhappy as I was.

Pushing my hands deeper into the pockets of my insufficient sweater, my hands found a crumpled pack of cigarettes, courtesy of Jack or James or one of the other smokers in the crew. Maybe it was their sweater. Clothes kind of got around in the tour, like we were one giant, smelly Brady Bunch.

I fished out a slightly dimpled cigarette and a lighter from the pack, lit up. Nasty habit, but I was in a nasty mood. Took a few slow drags, watching the smoke curl up, get whipped apart by the wind, mingling with dancing snowflakes.

A puddle of light suddenly spilled out from a door on the trailer I was leaning against, and, absurdly, I found myself chucking the cigarette into the gutter like I was still back home, hiding my sins from my dad. One of the black-feathered birds swooped down to grab it and disappeared into the dark sky, little ember fading into the distance. I looked back at the face that peered out from the door, saw a bald head silhouetted against the yellow glow.

We looked at each other for a while before his quiet, faintly accented voice called out, "You look cold."

I scowled at him. My mascara had run in streaks down my face, I was wearing torn leggings and a sweater three sizes too big in the midst of a blizzard, and I was visibly shivering. "Yeah, a _bit_," I said, trying to keep from snarling the words.

He nodded at me slowly, like I'd just revealed some great wisdom. "Would you like to come inside?"

Well, at least he didn't ask why I wasn't in the trailer, covered under a pile of warm blankets. _His _blankets.

I grumbled a little, but when he wheeled backwards, accompanied by a small electric whine, I climbed onto the short ladder beside the little elevator thing. Warmth wrapped around me like a down comforter, and I shuddered reflexively. I couldn't close the door fast enough.

The trailer was a little more spacious than the others—not the prison trailer after all—and while it wasn't a clear open space like… like where I'd been staying, it still had a lot of open areas and wide, well-cleared paths. A bunch of sound gear lined one wall, mixers and monitors and several miles of cables, while the opposite wall held shelves and a giant tower PC, two flatscreens laid out side by side; one vertical, one horizontal. A bed, lined with hefty metal rails, filled the back wall of the trailer, and behind me was a small kitchenette and an expanded bathroom with its own seated shower. Swank.

The host puttered over to the kitchenette, its lowered countertop putting the little electric kettle within easy reach of his stubby arms. He heated up some water, letting me look around and enjoy being out of the cold. Ginger Chainsaw, all patched up after helping with the Ninnies, was nestled in a tangled web of cables beside the computer, sleeping peacefully.

"You're…" I racked my brain, trying to remember his name. "Pizza, right?"

He nodded absently, eyes on the kettle. "Pizza the Hutt."

I wrinkled my nose at him. "What?"

Turning my way, he grinned faintly. "It is a bit of a joke. It helps him remember me. And it is better than what I used to be called." He was bundled up in the fluffiest blue Snuggie I'd ever seen, the shapes beneath it rotund, ending just above where his knees would be if… if he had legs. I hadn't really paid him much attention before. He wasn't really my preferred kind of… nontraditional body type. Idly I wondered if… I mean, he had the mass, but it was hard to pull muscle out of fat, and bones from nothing was even harder. Probably not within my power. I hoped he wouldn't ask. Just like I wouldn't ask what could be a worse nickname than _Pizza the Hutt_.

He offered the bed to sit on, since he had his own chair. Nowhere else to sit, really, and it was quite soft. Alien, after the lumpy cushions and dog beds I'd grown accustomed to. He made us both tea, and I sipped it, bitter and unfamiliar. I wasn't much of a tea drinker, but it helped soothe some of the roiling feelings still churning inside me.

"He left again," Pizza said without prompting, after a few quiet minutes.

I grimaced. "Yeah." Then I glanced sideways at him, suspicious. "How did you know?"

He gestured with stubby fingers at the computer monitors. One of them showed a map, lines on a dark background, subtle in night mode. "He has us track his phone. He gets lost sometimes."

I snorted humorlessly. The big idiot. Then scowled again. "Again? He does this a lot?"

Pizza nodded, jowls wobbling a bit. "It's been happening with more frequency the last few years." He sipped his tea. "He usually returns after a few hours. Like a cat." Grinning, he added, "Complete with little gifts."

I couldn't help but snort again at the mental image of the bastard proudly dropping a dead bird on the steps of the trailer, spiked tail wagging. "What kind of gifts?"

"Strays, sometimes." It took me a second, and he was lucky he didn't make any kind of gesture at _me _when he said that, or I might have been offended. "Other times, buried treasures. Time capsules. Messages."

Well that was just mysterious as fuck. "What kind of messages?"

He waved a hand, dismissive. "It is not my story to tell."

_Fine, keep your damn secrets. I didn't care anyway_.

Conversation was light, but between the warmth, the softness of the bed, the exhaustion from the fight, and the tea, I didn't put up too much protest when he suggested I nap on his bed. He was mostly nocturnal, he insisted, and had work to do. I didn't argue, and slipped into a light coma, snuggled amidst fluffy clouds.

* * *

"I need to go to New York," declared the thunder, and wind howled at the sound of his voice.

I snapped my eyes open to see the trailer dark, the only light coming from the dim computer screens reflected on the side of Pizza's face and… and Apex, lit from above by a small ceiling light, draped in shadow, his front half just inside the trailer's entrance. The storm had picked up outside, and little flurries of snow drifted in around him, whirling past his spine crystals, his fur waving animatedly.

My breath caught in my throat when I laid eyes on him. He was back. He was here. He… wasn't even looking at me, bundled up in Pizza's bed. His eyes were laser-focused on the other man, who simply nodded, then checked the computer screen.

"There is a week before the next performance. A few hours outside Rochester, in fact. Will you go on ahead?" Wait, what? He was leaving again? Just like that?

Apex nodded. Then he reached into the pouch he sometimes wore, usually just for his phone and some chapstick he only carried for my sake, and pulled out something small, wrapped in yellowed, stained paper. Without leaving his position by the door, he held it out in one of his larger hands, passing it to Pizza, who carefully unwrapped it. There was something small in his hand, which he plugged into the computer.

Glancing at me, he shifted one of the monitors so I couldn't see what was on it. Rude.

The two were silent for a moment, and I tried to say something, _anything_. Pick up the fight where we left off, yell at him, call him a bastard, tell him I was sorry, yell at him to come closer so I could kiss him or tear a whole horn off… but I couldn't decide what to do, all of those things spinning around in my head, and so I just watched him. Saw the snow melting off of his fur dripping onto the faux hardwood flooring, ignored. Watched as he never so much as turned his head my way; also ignored.

A thought struck me. Did he… did he even remember we had fought? Had I already become so inconsequential to him that whatever the fuck this mystery prize was had claimed all of his attention off of me?

The thought made me sick and _furious _in equal measure. Enough to get my ass off of the disturbingly comfortable bed and my bare feet onto the cool floor of the trailer. "What the hell is in New York?" I asked, the first words that bubbled up from the churning emotions in my gut. The tip of his horn dug into the middle of my chest, where it had shifted as I'd slept.

Pizza glanced at me, then up at Apex, but then turned back to the screen, eyes flickering over text I couldn't see. Apex, though… he turned the purple-red pits of his eyes my way, as if seeing me for the first time, head slightly tilted as though he couldn't understand what I'd said. Like I was speaking another language.

I tried to stand tall under his intense gaze. I was not something to be forgotten or discarded. I would make my goddamn mark and he'd _never _fucking forget me.

Then I jumped as something thumped the side of the trailer beside me, from the outside. His tail?

"Lipstick." That stupid _fucking _name, but coming from his lips…

"Whatever it is, I'm coming with you." The words slipped out, but I wasn't about to deny them now. And if he fucking tried to leave me behind this time…

He glanced at Pizza. Pizza glanced at me, then back up at Apex. In his soft voice, carefully neutral, Pizza said, "I will have Duct Tape coordinate transport, call in some favors. There should be enough time before you are needed with the band. The rest of the crew has their jobs, we are running a bit lean, and…" He smiled softly, looking back to the computer screen, the faint silhouette of the screens highlighting the edges of his face. "And it is your story, my friend."

Apex stared at me.

I glowered back, barefoot, ankle bracelet an awkward lump on my leg, mohawks tilted from the bed, sleep still in my eyes, fists clenched.

"It may be dangerous," he rumbled, a pleased sound in the back of his throat. Before I could argue with him, he added, "Get ready. We leave soon."

And then he was gone, somehow squeezing into, turning around in, and slipping out of the trailer entrance in one smooth movement, the last I saw of him the spiked tail slapping the door shut with a _thwack_.

Pizza let out a little sigh. I wasn't sure if it was relief, disappointment, or something else.

I unclenched my fists, sagged backwards with a sigh until I fell, once again sitting on the bed. Looked at Pizza, who looked back at me, expectant. I thought about what Apex said, what I may have just signed up for… and made one demand.

"I need a pet store."


	20. Lost But Still We Ride

The sky was impossibly blue, with not a cloud in sight. Waves crashed, hissing on the golden sands, and a pair of coconut trees loomed overhead, bent slightly inward over me, a natural arch. There was some fabric and string beneath me, although it didn't really do much but keep some of the sand from getting between my armor plates. Not the greatest of hammocks, although I supposed it had been wishful thinking. Probably for the best it broke before the trees did, anyway.

It was quiet, the silence only broken by the sea and the occasional screeching seagull. Peaceful. Even the hunger was easier to ignore, here, in this little paradise.

"There you are," a woman's voice called out from further inland, steps muffled by sand. "I've been looking everywhere for you." I opened my eyes—I hadn't realized I'd closed them again—and turned my head towards the sun, low in the sky. A silhouetted figure, slim and elegant.

"Get off your ass. Are you ready, little guy?"

I climbed to my feet, carefully resting some of my weight on one of the palm trees. It swayed drunkenly, and I let it be. I looked up at the woman. Her smile was wide, and contained a great many razor sharp teeth, but it seemed a little forced. And she smelled nervous, although her scent was weird. The way she kept touching the loose ends of her head scarf, shifted her weight from one splay-clawed foot to the other, only added to that impression.

"Ready?" I asked the lanky woman. She was a good head taller than me, and I was a good head taller than most. It was a novel experience.

"Good," she said, taking my question for assent. Oh well.

I followed her down a small road, winding along the shoreline. Boats dotted the crystal-clear sea in increasing numbers as we approached a small marina, her pace just a hair under jogging, her long steps eating up the distance. She seemed pretty self-controlled, but I saw her check her phone a few times, as well as glancing back at me, yellow eyes flashing. I wondered if it would be a good surprise.

Two people were waiting at one particular dock. One was a bustling, quiet man, tanned skin, preparing a nice-looking boat for… takeoff? Setting… sail? He wore a captain's hat, a crisp white that matched the polished white of the boat. Doing boaty things. He smelled of salt and sweat, a local.

The other was a petite woman, tan but not as tan as the captain, with short brown hair. She was dressed more casually, wearing a colorful sort of sarong over a bikini top and short shorts. She waved as we approached, and the tall woman's scent of nervousness grew a bit more pronounced as she languidly waved back.

The two women met with an enveloping hug and a quick kiss, making small talk as they went aboard, the tall woman waving me to follow when I just watched them go.

"It's fine, I only got here a few minutes before you did," the shorter woman said, brushing some hair from her face, the sea breeze picking up slightly as the sun lowered in the sky.

"That's good. I know you can't _bear _to wait for me," the taller one replied, grinning ear to ear. She only got a groan in reply, and then the captain untied the last of the ropes and took us out to sea, smoothly picking up speed once we left the buoy-dotted line marking the edge of the marina.

It was a very nice boat. Two levels above, one small cabin below I could just poke my head into. The captain stayed on the top-most level, steering the ship towards the deeper waters with long, slow arcs, taking his time. The… ground floor? Had been set up with a pair of deck chairs and a large dog bed. _Nice_. I curled up on the latter immediately, letting the smell of saltwater fill my nostrils, basking in the waning warmth of the setting sun.

The two women chatted quietly, occasionally asking me questions, or leaving me room to chime in. I didn't feel the need to interject. They thanked me for flying them and some coworkers out here, although I wasn't sure if they were being serious or not. Something about the sunshine, maybe. It was really quite nice out. I was glad they invited me out for the ride—or I had invited them out for one, it wasn't clear—although a part of me eyed the taller woman's claws. They looked sharp, and her smell hinted at things not quite human beneath the skin. Maybe some promise there.

Her puns were a bit off-putting, though. Relentless. And oddly themed.

"I'm not giving you the set up," said the smaller woman, folding her arms. The taller woman only grinned. "I'm not!"

"Come on, ask me what I'm waiting for."

"No!"

"Come _oooooon_."

Little one groaned even harder. "Why aren't you talking," she said mechanically.

"I'm…" Big one delayed for three whole seconds, smile inhumanly wide. "Pawsing fur effect." That one took me a second to parse. Puns were difficult, sometimes. The consistent topic helped.

Little one made a disgusted noise. "I'm banning you from jokes forever."

"Oh, come on, admit it. That was koala-ty."

"Ugh."

"Okay, okay, I get it. My sense of humour can be polarising."

"UGH."

"No need to make such grizzly faces."

Little one reached over and put her hand over big one's mouth. "Please stop."

Laughing, big one leaned back, putting up her hands. "Sorry."

"No you're not."

"No I'm not," big one agreed. "Ooh, look! Are those dolphins?"

Little one jumped out of her chair to lean against the boat's railing, looking out at what were, indeed, dolphins dancing through the waters nearby. I _thought _I'd smelled food.

Big one caught my attention, waving a long-fingered hand in front of my face. Whispered quietly, but urgently. "You've still got it, right?"

I blinked at her. That was, apparently, not the answer she was hoping for, her voice turning to an insistent, low growl. "Come on, I gave it to you back in New York so she couldn't find it in my luggage. You have it with you?"

New York? What? I tried to think back—vague impressions of tall buildings, nice parks, only a little bit of screaming. A zoo, animals on edge around me, agitated. People in spandex. Nothing concrete.

Her brow furrowed, teeth bared in frustration, gesturing more urgently with one hand. "The _thing_," she hissed at me, pointing at me. Me, with my complete lack of pockets. What was she even…

I coughed a little, something tickling the back of my throat. An odd sensation. I flicked a tongue at whatever it was, trying to dislodge it from behind one of my grinding teeth, and… _oh, hey_.

Big one had looked at little one's back, still leaning over the rail, then turned back to me with murder in her eyes—which quickly turned to faint confusion and a flood of relief at the small shiny bit lodged on the tip of one of my five foot-long tongues. She daintily plucked it from my grasp with long fingers, then practically threw herself at the deck behind little one. Crouched, as though ready to pounce. Waiting for her to—

"They're so cute!" little one squealed, then turned around to say something else, only to notice big one and freeze, eyes wide. She looked at big one, who was on one knee, and the tiny, diamond-tipped ring clutched in her hand. Little one clapped both hands to her mouth in shock, and I could almost taste the surprised happiness coming off of her in waves.

"Steffi, I uh, you, um, your eyes are, your face is..." Big one was breathing quickly, her pupils narrowed to slits, panic-sweat tickling my nose. "Fuck I had this whole thing prepared, I um. Shit." She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and then almost yelled. "Will you marry me?"

"Yes!" It exploded out of little one and then she was throwing herself headlong at big one, crashing into her and bearing them both to the deck. They were laughing and crying and little one kept saying, "Yes, yes, yes, yes!"

I bore witness to this magical moment, and felt…

Lonely.

Even as I basked in the second-hand radiance of this lovely young couple, took pictures with little one's phone, accepted a good-natured berating from big one for scaring her, I just couldn't help but think…

Would I ever find something like this?

Worse yet… what if I already had?


	21. M : My Kingdom Falls This Night

In any other circumstances, I would have been thrilled.

I was finally in full costume again. Mane, wild and untamed. Tail, scaled, whipping slowly behind me, coiling around nearby objects. Claws out, scales wrapped around my three middle fingers, feathers behind that up to the elbow. Handmade, untreated leather halter top, collar, horned domino mask, belt, and… regular leggings, because we got caught breaking into and looting the pet store and had to bail. What else could we do? It was the middle of the night, and Apex wasn't going to let me wait til they opened to gear up.

The spiked boots were a constant, though, rough-treaded and well-worn. Familiar. Same with the little trophy, nestled between my cleavage, a piece of him he couldn't ever deny.

And speaking of the beautiful beast, we were in _very _close proximity. This shuttle wasn't exactly small, but it wasn't built for a monster sixteen feet tall and twice as long including the tail, which had to wrap around my legs twice to keep from hitting anything important.

I could feel his triple heartbeat, sense every excited movement of his body, bask in the warmth of his muscles and fur pressed up against me. Almost a tender embrace. Almost.

All in all, if we hadn't been hurtling into the unknown, chasing dreams he wouldn't—or couldn't—explain to me, on a jet with _no pilot_, it would have been something I'd have dreamed of not too long ago.

As it was I just couldn't stop thinking about…

What the hell was he even thinking about, anyway? I looked up at his face, but he was looking out the cockpit, only a few feet away from the console full of more buttons and lights than I could count, and oh yeah, who could forget the _empty pilot seat_ centered in front of the windshield.

Fuck, my life had gotten weird the last few months.

A screen lit up, a woman's face, smiling faintly, appearing on it. "Touchdown in ten minutes. I'm sorry I couldn't find you a larger craft, Apex, but this was the only rapid response vehicle that could carry passengers in range."

Apex turned his head towards the screen, looming over me, and hummed noncommittally, the sound rattling my bones from proximity.

The woman seemed to take that as answer enough, because her gaze shifted down towards me, smile widening. "And you must be… do you still go by Plasticine? I've had… conflicting reports."

Apex started to respond, but I elbowed him in the ribs. It felt like hitting a brick wall, but he made a faint _oof _sound. "Mera is fine, thank you… Dragon."

She nodded. I took advantage of the call to ask the question that had been bothering me since I first saw the futuristic jet land on the empty lot by the camp. "So why… I mean you've probably got other things to do. Apex is famous, but he isn't…"

I trailed off, gesturing vaguely, and she seemed to pick up what I was putting down. "Don't worry, Mera. I'm very good at multitasking, and the shuttle can pretty much fly itself. As for why, well." Her smile widened, and her eyes got a little twinkle in them that seemed playful and secretive at the same time. "Apex did me a favor, once. And he doesn't ask for much in return, so when I got the call, I felt it was the least I could do to redirect one of my idle craft your way."

I could feel as much as see Apex shift, his head tilting. He… did he really not…

Burnout had warned me. I shouldn't have been surprised. By any of it. Still, it made the closeness bittersweet, thinking it was only a matter of time before he…

I shook my head. I was here, it was now. Overplanning was for losers. The moment was all that mattered. That said, though, having _no plan at all_ was disconcerting. "Do you know where we're going?"

She seemed amused by the question, her eyes flicking up to Apex's face for a moment. "Ithaca, New York."

Cool, cool. Good to know, still useless. "Do you know _why_, though?"

She chuckled, the sound faintly distorted, digital, like it was compressed and decompressed one time too many. Tinkers. "I thought you would know. No one told _me _why, just a pickup location, a dropoff point, and 'ASAP' in the request."

I closed my eyes and sighed deeply, feeling Apex shift and settle around me like a living beanbag chair. Of course.

"That said, I'm sure you will figure it out once you—hmm?"

Apex hadn't just been settling—his head was turning left and right, no longer fixed on the windshield. He shuffled in place, briefly pressing me against the wall, reaching around with all four hands, looking for—

"Ah. Well, I suppose we are close enough now. Mera, you should take a seat in the chair and buckle up, it is going to get windy for a minute."

Well that was concerning. I did as I was told, and was about to ask another question when my voice was drowned out by high-pitched beeping and the sudden howl of wind as the back of the jet opened up. I craned my neck to see if we were, I don't know, being boarded by _sky pirates_ or something, but all I saw was Apex's back, crystals glowing faintly, sky a robin's egg blue behind him.

He let out a triumphant howl and _leapt_, skin-flaps snapping into place between each of his limbs and his tail, catching the wind and instantly vanishing into the void.

I could only stare as the jet closed up behind him.

"I'll make sure you are reunited on the ground," Dragon reassured me, but…

Well. At least he was enjoying himself, I supposed. And with the wings _I _gave him.

Forget _that_, asshole.

"Who the fuck are you assholes?"

The woman was wide-eyed, covered in grease marks and small burns, her fingertips bleeding. She was Asian, with hair halfway down her back, and had a sort of unhealthily-skinny look about her that, combined with the circles under her eyes, made her look unhinged.

Or maybe that was the giant mechanical _thing_ under construction beside her, a bird's nest of wires, twisted bits of metal and enough copper tubing to make me think she stripped half of the university's plumbing to put it together. At the very least the giant boiler half-disassembled behind her, anyway. The whole place stunk of hot metal, sweat, and the kind of mold and funk you got in a basement nobody had cleaned out since the seventies.

Apex took me to the nicest places.

"Hostage negotiator," Apex rumbled, taking a step forward.

"Hostage—? But I hadn't—" She scrabbled backwards, grabbing something that looked like a key fob and holding it out like a talisman. "Whatever! One step closer, motherfucker, and I'll kill you!"

He growled, low in his throat, an _excited _sound that made my legs weak. Took another step forward. "Don't make promises you can't keep, little one."

Little—_that son of a bitch_—no. No. It was fine. Fine! I had made a promise. I wasn't the jealous type, not anymore. Regardless of what else still had to be settled between us, I wasn't a liar. I could deal with him having other… partners.

The woman's eyes widened, then she threw the fob down, crawled over the half-constructed monstrosity and popped back up with a blowtorch. Cute. I was halfway back up the stairs to the basement, crouched so I could see her past Apex, but I wasn't really all that threatened, no matter how hard he'd insisted I stay behind him.

He cleared his throat, all four hands spread wide, as nonthreatening as a perfect killing machine could be. "I'm not here to kill you. I'm here to offer you a job."

Her eyes narrowed. She spat. "I don't know what kind of sick fucking joke you think this is, but I'm not—"

"You make bombs," he interrupted. Wait, what? Was that what the—jesus christ, it was the size of a car! "The best bombs." I suddenly felt less safe in this nasty basement, but Apex didn't seem to care. Then again, he wouldn't.

"You're goddamn right I do," she spat back, words this time. "When this baby is finished, it'll take out everything in a forty mile radius." She laughed, high-pitched, real mad scientist shit. A _lot _less safe.

Apex nodded, like she was talking about a corporate skill on her resume and not a reason to be on a terrorist watchlist. "Good. Make bombs for me."

She seemed stunned for a moment, then bared her teeth in a sneer, dismissive, disdainful. "You want to sell my babies?"

"No." He shook his head, his horns nearly scraping the low ceiling. "Make bombs _for me_. Hurt me. Kill me, if you can. A challenge. For both of us." The anticipation in his voice sent my stomach twisting in knots. But if it would make him happy...

This time when she eyed him, it was with a more appraising look. Calculating. She lowered the torch a fraction, started spitting out demands. "I want my record cleaned. My grades set right. A lab to work with, with real tools and materials." She bared her teeth again, this time with pure hatred and disgust. "And Professor McElroy shitcanned. _And set on fire_."

"Whatever you want."

My eye twitched. It was one thing to share him with someone else, but did he have to be so goddamn eager about it? I didn't remember getting this kind of pitch when I joined the crew. Hell, I wasn't even being _paid_. Or maybe I was. I hadn't really checked. Look, I had other things on my mind, alright? At least she didn't seem to—

Goddamnit. She was giving him a _look_. That slow down-up, the kind I gave him when I just wanted to admire his physique, but presumably for different reasons, coming from her. I hoped. "Anything I want to make, as long as I use it on you?"

Apex shrugged, four muscular shoulders shifting under his fur in a very distracting way. "Whatever else you do with them, I don't care. But if you're arrested again, break probation, you're useless to me."

She crossed her arms, hip cocked, like she was prepared to throw his offer back in his face. I half hoped she would. Who planned to hold an entire city hostage, anyway? At least Happy Pill, Black Goat and I were up-close-and-personal sorts of supervillains. A human touch. Bombs were… well. She was clearly fucking nuts. I just hoped she wasn't Apex's kind of nuts.

Unfortunately, after a long thirty seconds of consideration, she nodded slowly. "Meet my demands. We'll talk."

Only then did Apex acknowledge my existence, his head half-turning to look at me on the stairs. I sat up straighter. Maybe I wouldn't be completely fucking useless this trip?

"Call Kurt," he rumbled at me, practically purring in satisfaction.

Oh for fuck's sake, that was just _insulting_.

"Hmm," Kurt said noncommittally. I could just hear some typing over the phone, faint compared to the nearby sounds of PRT officers bustling about and the occasional rumble of the big beautiful bastard speaking to Protectorate capes. They were an eyesore, what with their silly spandex and cartoonishly bright primary colors. Wouldn't catch me dead in an outfit like that. But that was just me trying not to look at how happy Apex seemed, his fur writhing, horned head glancing over at where the crazy bitch was getting manhandled into a van by a handful of very nervous government goons.

"Very well. I will make arrangements," Kurt eventually declared.

I nodded, even though he couldn't see me. I bit my lip, tasting metal. Some of the Protectorate capes were looking my way, noticing the costume. _Yeah, you cheesy clowns, mine is way better than yours_. And then Apex turned his head my way as well, and his tail nearly knocked an officer over behind him as it swung from one side to the other. I was torn between glowering at him and trying to smile despite myself.

"...Is there anything else?"

_Couldn't you have said no? Are we really going to let this mad fucking bomber join the crew just to… just because Apex..._

"No," I answered.

There was a pause, and a small sigh over the line. "You are worried."

I nearly dropped the phone. "What? No. No, I'm fine. Why would I be worried?" Shit, I couldn't even fool myself with lies that transparent. But hell if I was going to show weakness in front of the personification of late stage capitalism. I tried again. "I have nothing to worry about. She probably doesn't even _like _metal."

"Mera," he said, shocking me a second time. I wasn't used to anyone on the crew calling me anything but that stupid name he gave me, much less _him_. "I brought you onto the crew for a reason. Do you remember what that was?"

_How could I forget? _My lips twisted into a scowl, remembering that conversation. "To make Apex happy."

"That is correct. And you aren't doing a great job of it if you're sulking like a spoiled child having to share a toy."

"Go fuck yourself," I replied automatically, only belatedly remembering he was arguably my boss. Certainly my landlord. "I'm not sulking. I'm fine! This bitch can't do—" except maybe she could "—she's not a threat to—" except I saw the way Apex looked at her "—she's just a temporary—" except her Tinkertech could keep coming up with new things while my power was…

I trailed off, sabotaged and betrayed by my own thoughts. It was stupid! I knew from the start I would accept Apex being Apex, having his fun, growing as a monster and as a person. This bullshit was beneath me.

Maybe the crazy was contagious, because Kurt actually _agreed _with me. "I think you are forgetting something very important, Mera. While Apex has had many partners, and has grown from them, even I can't deny you have left your mark." Damn right I had. I wrapped my fingers around the horn around my neck, careful not to squeeze it too tightly. And then Kurt had to fucking ruin it by adding, "He has never been _sculpted _before."

My breath caught in my throat. That's… that's not what I had done. Not to him. I had changed him, yes, but he wasn't… He shaped himself, damnit. _It wasn't the same thing_.

I hung up, careful not to scratch the screen with the claws of my costume. Apex looked to be finished with the Protectorate, resting on his haunches, watching the van with his newest _partner _as it drove away. Not even paying attention to me, even though he'd dragged me out here without any explanation or consideration, even though I'd helped him, even though I was _gracious _and _understanding _and—

He sniffed the air and turned to look my way again, head slightly tilted, and I hurried over to join him.

It was hard to be mad at him when he was this pleased with himself, his tail whipping back and forth through the cheap motel Duct Tape had arranged for us while waiting for the rest of the crew to join us. He made a racket that way, accidentally shattering the flimsy wooden desk chair, putting dents into the thin drywall, but it was a pretty minor thing next to the look he was giving me. The excited, hungry look…

The worst part was, I _missed _him. I didn't regret coming along, going on this 'adventure' with him, but it was fucking torture being so close to him this whole time, knowing we had never resolved our fight, knowing that I shouldn't give in, that I should insist on talking shit out with him, that I should stay strong and demand he… what? Promised to try to remember me? Not let his power make him forget me? Was there anything he could even say that would make things better? Would empty promises have made me happy?

The doubt made my resolve waver. The heat of his breath as he loomed over me while I lay down on the thin mattress, the sheer presence of his body so large, so close, only weakened it further. The hand he held out, massive, clawed, and oh so gentle as he brushed the back of my arm in silent question, not presuming, still checking in that I was as interested as he visibly was…

I broke. Took his hand, decided to live for the moment. Even if it hurt.

Him slamming me to the ground hard enough to crack my ribs hurt, too. Left me gasping for multiple reasons.

I just didn't know if it was a good kind of hurt or not.


	22. M : But Now You Have A Plan

"Pull!"

There was a _whump_, a streak, then a blur that hurt my eyes as Apex twisted into knots, the sound of his laughter dopplering, distorted. It seemed to take him longer than usual, but _eh_. The day I started worrying about the beautiful monster's _safety _would be the day I hung up my superfan badge and went back to beauty school.

The woman beside me watched him eagerly through binoculars, muttering to herself under her breath. We had been standing closer, before, but after the first 'thermobaric entanglement transposition' whatsit that turned (nearly) everything around it to glowing dust, Duct Tape had set us up a table a good hundred yards away for future fireworks.

Firecracker—and the woman's face when she got her A-name made me feel a pang of unwanted sympathy—dropped her cobbled-together grenade launcher back onto its sling beneath one arm, turning back to the folding table, scribbling notes furiously into her notebook. Every once in a while she would tear off a page and imperiously wave it towards Duct Tape, who would take it and start making calls. Occasionally she would vanish for a while, then return and—carefully!—unload boxes from her personalized golf cart onto the table for Firecracker to tear open without a word of thanks or acknowledgement.

Meanwhile, I leaned back into my camp chair, arms behind my head, arching my back, feeling it go _pop-pop-pop_ with satisfaction. I glanced over at Burnout, head buried in his magazine; he was reading Cosmo, and seemed surprisingly into it, but that was a whole other mystery I didn't have the time or energy to investigate. The little devil horns poking through the luscious flowing hair behind his widow's peak looked excellent, though. I would have gone bigger, but it was quality work for what he'd let me get away with.

Behind him, several other camp chairs were set up in a circle around an impromptu fire pit. Olaf was softly strumming a guitar, humming to himself while others listened, played on their phones, or just rested, letting the warmth from the fire soak into their bones. Two were dazed, drooling slightly, but Happy Pill was a careful artist, and Duct Tape had piled up bottles of water around them so they would stay hydrated. It was the first day off for the crew in a while—still three days until our next performance, and there was only so much you could set up ahead of time. And Kurt was off doing his thing offsite, so while the cats were away...

Off in the distance—opposite the direction where Apex was unfolding himself into three dimensions again—I heard whooping and shouts as two golf carts raced across the rocky terrain, their occupants bouncing and rattling as they darted around, taking too-tight turns to keep up with the soccer ball that was ping-ponging off of rocks and the croquet mallets they had found in a dumpster. Had to keep yourself entertained on the road somehow, and it wasn't like any of them were concerned about injuries.

I looked back there just in time to see Black Goat eat shit, spilling out of his overturned cart with both laughter and loud complaints. Happy Pill was sitting behind me, watching and smiling softly, sipping from a little glass bottle, her eyes bright. She'd had her turn with the new girl, talking Tinkertech for a while. Not enough gear brought from her studio for her to properly collaborate, but she did give Firecracker a sip from something that sent the woman cackling and moving far more animatedly over her temporary mad scientist lab.

It was peaceful, despite my misgivings. Everyone was one big weird-ass happy family, even the new arrival.

"He's still fighting his way out of that one," I called out approvingly to Firecracker over the sound of distant thunder. Apex had gotten sucked back into the effect, his hands scrabbling at the rocks for handholds, his crystals glowing brightly, his laughter just barely audible over the roaring of defiled spacetime.

She took a second to respond, eyes flicking my way, not interrupting her scribbles. "Yeah. Number sixty-eight. I'll have to revisit that one. Beautiful work, if I do say so myself." I couldn't disagree, even if she still gave me the heebie-jeebies at times.

We settled back into watching Apex's struggles, me through eyes shielded from the sun with one hand, her through binoculars, her manic fit of Science! having passed. She surprised me by speaking next, still watching her work. "I'm impressed you guys actually managed to get a tenured department head sacked."

"And break up his marriage," I said, remembering Kurt's tiny smile of satisfaction. Figured he would enjoy making people suffer as much as he enjoyed making money. The two went hand in hand so well, after all.

Firecracker laughed, a sharp bark, followed by a satisfied sneer beneath the binoculars. "Fucker had it coming." She let out a little sigh, half satisfaction, half disappointment as Apex finally shook off the last of number sixty-eight. She turned back to the table once again, fingers dancing over the cylindrical grenades like a piano, choosing her next weapon even before Apex waved across the distance to us. Had he gotten bigger? Maybe it was just the crystals breaking through the surface of his shoulders that gave that impression. Or the way his image occasionally flickered, his head twitching to look in two directions at once before shadowy afterimages merged again. I didn't know how that one was gonna affect the bedroom, but we were both creative monsters. We would figure something out.

"So this is life now, huh?" I mused, fishing around in a nearby cooler for another bottle of water. Could be worse.

Her eyes snapped to mine, eyebrows furrowed like I'd just mispronounced molybdenum again. "Are you fucking stupid?" One hand cracked open her launcher, shoved another grenade smoothly into it, snapped it shut. She fired, not looking, before Apex called out 'pull' again. "This is a stepping stone. I'm not settling for doing pyrotechnics for a _metal band_. I'm going to change the fucking world, mark my words."

I couldn't help but be offended at the way she referred to the greatest performance art in history, but… eh. I didn't need to defend Apex from anyone. Still had to take her down a peg, though. "Big words from someone in an ankle monitor."

Her lips twisted, but then she gave a pointed glance at my own, blinking silently just above my boot. Touché, but I _chose _to be here. Fought for it. And I'd make my own damn mark. Nothing she had done had regrown the tip of Apex's horn, after all.

"You think small, Chapstick." The bitch did that on _purpose_. "You have a goal, you don't stop when you achieve it. You find a bigger, badder goal, and then smash _that _to pieces. Never settle for less than perfect."

I was going to say that that attitude was what got her building bombs in a university basement, but I caught my tongue in time. I'd heard her story, filtered through Kurt and other crew members, and... I couldn't help but feel a bit of sympathy. Getting fucked by a bullshit world was an experience we all shared.

As she got back to work, and Apex started regrowing after his flesh had been turned into a glass sculpture and shattered, I actually gave her words some thought.

I knew what I _had _wanted. To get close to Apex. To show him how much I loved him. And then I got it, and… and it was going to end. Someday, somehow, but it was going to end…

I shook my head. Not if I could help it. I clutched the tip of his horn around my neck absently with one hand, and an idea crossed my mind, flickering like Apex's shadows. I grasped at it, thoughts suddenly spinning. "Thank you," I said distractedly to Firecracker, but she ignored me, already cracking open her next grenade and making tiny changes to it. I had the beginnings of a plan.

But first, I needed to talk to Happy Pill and Black Goat.

"Apex," I said, a little out of breath, as we sprawled over the pillow fort. He had been on a tear the last week or so, since that night he disappeared into the snow. Enthusiastic, passionate, everything I had wanted… before. Now, I wanted more. But it required… I bit my lip, then called out his name again.

"Hmm?" he rumbled, his snoring interrupted.

"Do you…" I flexed my fingers, rolling my wrist nervously. I could do this. Leap of faith. "Do you want to meet my family?"

He just stared at me for a long moment, the pits where his eyes had once been now glowing faintly white, occasionally crackling with something like static.

"Okay."


	23. Children Point To You And Scream

The pre-dawn light was dim, and I wore bulky clothes that barely fit over my frame. The horns were harder to hide, unfortunately, but it turned out Asian grannies simply didn't give a fuck.

So I did my tai chi in peace, flowing smoothly from one pose to another, occasionally glancing at the whip-thin woman with big sunglasses and a frizzy perm leading the group in the park—a small postage stamp of grass and trees nestled in between strip malls and low-rent office complexes. I ignored the stares, as I always did, but after a few minutes I noticed I had a cordon of tiny old women shielding me from passersby. As best as they could, given I was at least a foot taller than the tallest among them. Quiet, wordless consideration. Touching, really.

It felt strange, to have exercise feel this good. Stretching my muscles, pebbly skin taut as I flexed and shifted. It made my body wake up in a way that caffeine had stopped helping ages ago. The smooth motions were different than my usual explosive power, as well. Meditative, almost. A slow coiling and uncoiling of springs, rather than the snaps and cracks of tearing steel. I doubted it made me any stronger, but maybe it helped in its own way. Control rather than power, perhaps? I was reaching the point where the world was starting to feel like it was made of cardboard. Too many broken door handles.

I endeavored to return next Sunday morning, if I could remember. There was little conversation, each person splitting off in twos and threes to destinations unknown, but one or two of the oldest—and quite likely blindest—tried to set me up with their daughters in broken English. A strapping young man such as myself was a prize, apparently. And so tall! Six feet if I was an inch. And polite, as well. At least my tablet's voice was, anyway.

A different sort of matchmaker was waiting for me as I left the park. Red from head to toe, curly brown hair above the opaque visor, easy grin beneath. Vaguely familiar, or perhaps it was just the impression he should be. I had that feeling a lot. And the strange sense there should have been another hero alongside him.

"Not interested in a sales hitch," I rumbled, and his smile didn't waver.

"Between you and me," he said, early morning sunlight glinting off of his flawless white teeth. "I'm not interested in giving one. But, anyone asks, I gave it my best shot."

I chuffed, moved past him. Was only partly surprised to hear him follow, whistling softly, tunelessly. I paused, and he stopped as well, a few paces behind me. I turned, and his smile hadn't dimmed.

"What."

He shrugged. "Turns out if we let you roam unattended, some people get the wrong idea. Panic a little. You have the pleasure of my company, at least until the good citizens of the city"—read: _idiots_—"see you aren't a threat."

I chuffed out a sigh this time. "Fine."

At least he drew some of the stares away from me. Once the sun was up, people were a lot more brazen about it, openly stopping and gawking at us as we passed, and this way some of them were distracted by the costumed superhero, and asking him for autographs rather than running screaming from me. Or shooting me. Those got boring after a while. Cowards with their weak constitutions and weaker munitions...

He followed me, and I followed my nose. Beef, sizzling, soaked in its own fat, hot on a griddle, pouring out of a beach-front restaurant like a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. It was busy, despite the early time of day. Mostly young families, a distinct preponderance of harried-looking mothers and their squealing crotch spawn. Nothing that would get between me and a meal. I wondered if I could rely on the hero's presence for a free brunch. He seemed like the sort who would be up for it.

There was a particularly closeby screech, and something tapping insistently against my leg. I looked down.

The child looked up at me, eyes wide, snot running down one nostril, breathing heavily from his mighty battle cry. A neon foam sword was clutched desperately in one hand, and as I watched, he _bapped _me again with it. Cotton candy kisses.

I stared at him for a moment, then slowly collapsed to my side, away from him, groaning pitifully. The big hero watched the little one with amusement. I reached up a hand towards my companion, claws grasping at air. He leaned forward, grinning at my terrible fate, even as my head lolled and my tongue fell out of my mouth, tasting dirt.

"Alas, my old friend," my tablet chirped out in its polite, drama-less monotone. "I am vanquished."

The red-suited man, grinning inappropriately through his despair, crouched on one knee to my side. Clutching one hand to his chest, he declared, projecting his voice dramatically, "I will tell all who ask the tale of the brave knight who bested you, the mighty beast, at the peak of your power."

I coughed, a low rumble that sent the child flinching back a step. Reaching back up to the man, I implored him. "Please, do not forget my parting words. My dear companion… tell your wife… I love her."

He laughed, likely to cover the heartbreak of my death, then mimed wiping a tear from his cheek.

The child looked bewildered. _Right_.

In my own voice, I gave the abridged version. "Oh noes. I ded."

He squealed in delight and _bapped _me a few more times for good measure, climbing on top of my corpse in triumph. Until his mother emerged from the restaurant bathroom and promptly lost her shit.

"The kid has a career in the PRT someday," the hero said, stealing a fry off of my plate.

My tongue whipped out and did the same to his plate in retaliation. It didn't matter, really. He'd paid for both meals, like a sucker. He only smiled again. He did that a lot.

"You're good with the little gremlins," he said, his expression softening a little beneath his visor.

I chuffed in response, taking another bite of the truly ridiculous burger. It was so big I couldn't even fit the whole patty in my mouth without folding it up. Had to get his money's worth, after all. "Don't spread it around. I am a monster. I have a reputation to maintain." One nice thing about the tablet—I could talk with my mouth _and _one hand full.

"The girlfriend and I have talked about kids. She's doubtful, but I think I can swing her around to my point of view." He took a bite of his own, much more modestly-sized burger, and continued with his mouth full, albeit with none of my advantages. "You ever think of having any of your own?" he asked, wrapping the words around his food with some difficulty. Gross.

I looked at him. Looked down at me. Back at him, one eyebrow raised.

He swallowed, then grinned back. "You never know; there's no accounting for taste. And adopting is always an option. Grab a few Wards, maybe. You're probably a better role model than I am."

"Better table manners, for certain," my tablet chided him at my command.

We ate in silence for a bit. He signed two autographs, both to fit young mothers. Typical.

"I wouldn't want to bring children into this world anyway," I said, barely even realizing I'd typed the words out. He seemed as surprised as I was, head tilting at me, considering. "Too dangerous," I clarified needlessly. He probably knew better than most how quickly things were going to shit.

"I don't know," he said, offering me what he probably hoped was another winning smile. "Got to have some hope things will turn out alright."

I shook my head, swallowing the last of my burger. I had lost my appetite.

Must be nice to be so naive.


	24. M : Keep Bloodlines Alive

Mom and Dad were very, very confused, but still happy to see me. Tearful hugs that nearly squeezed the breath out of me—me keeping my hands very clear—kisses on the cheek, fussing over me like I'd just come back from summer camp, the whole shebang. Apex just watched from outside the doorway, head slightly tilted.

Once I could get a word in edgewise, I took a deep breath. "Mom, Dad, this is Apex. My boyfriend slash parole officer."

They took that… surprisingly well, all things considered. Only a brief huddle, some rapid whispering, the occasional glance up behind me, through the doorway. I may have heard 'she's brought home worse' and crossed my arms, scowling at them. Then they stood straighter, flashed big smiles, and waved him in. "Anyone who brings our daughter home after all these years is welcome. Please, come in!"

Then they backed up a few steps as he squeezed his way through the door frame, scratching the paint with his spikes as his body contorted and limbs shifted to let him fit through the gap. Like a cat, almost. Speaking of which, I could see Kafka hiding beneath the living room sofa, the small black tomcat clearly torn between leaping into my arms and hiding from _the _apex predator. He'd come crawling back to me when he wanted attention, like always, the furry little shit.

I looked around at my childhood home. The familiar off-white walls, the scuffed wooden floors, the shelves and shelves of knick-knacks and tchotchkes. I didn't think I could handle going upstairs to see my old room without my emotional support monster, and he probably wouldn't have fit in the stairwell, so instead I watched my parents. Dad hadn't changed much—hairline a little further back, grayer, paunch a little bit more pronounced, mustache still big and bushy, like a push-broom nestled on his face. Mom had lost some weight, gained a few more lines around her eyes, her forehead. We had started talking again, after a few years of silence, but this was the first time I'd visited them in… damn. A long time. It was almost surreal, being back here; all the more so with Apex by my side. A dream come true, in so many ways. Even if it wasn't quite everything I'd hoped it would be, so long ago.

Dad bustled around the kitchen, making space in the adjoined living and dining rooms, the only place in the house Apex could lie down comfortably without breaking through drywall. Mom, meanwhile, focused solely on embarrassing me as much as possible.

"You were a cheerleader," Apex rumbled, somehow packing both incredulity and amusement into his low growl.

I rolled my eyes, cheeks flushing despite myself. "Yeah, for like a week. I don't know why they still have the pictures."

"It showed our little girl in colors besides black for once, how could I not?" Mom said, beaming ear to ear. That wasn't fair at all! I had red clothes, and… a broad spectrum of grays. Some whites. Some dark browns. Did silver count? Regardless, totally bullshit.

"I can't believe I'm actually saying this again, but _it's not a phase, Mom_."

There were pictures of me as a kid, blonde curls and fat cheeks. The usual stories told whenever I brought anyone home, almost nostalgic in how long it had been since I'd heard them, but still mostly mortifying. Apex kept glancing at me, as though surprised I had been a kid once. I wondered what he had been like as a child, but every time I tried imagining it I just imagined a tiny Apex, a three foot tall furry dinosaur. My god, he would have been _adorable_.

And then more recent pictures came out, just as Dad emerged from the kitchen with some hastily-pan-fried steaks, mashed potatoes and a salad. For my main course, I had some veggie dumplings that had probably been in the freezer since before I left, but seasoned and prepared expertly in a very Dad way. We arranged ourselves around the dining room table, leaving room for Apex at the end, his tail carefully wrapped around an ottoman to keep him from accidentally knocking over the china cabinet. For a moment we were all too busy serving ourselves and digging into dinner to speak—_fuck, I had missed Dad's cooking_—but then Apex tapped one of the pictures with a claw.

"I'm in this one," he rumbled, something odd in his voice.

I looked, and saw a slightly-blurry selfie, my face pale from the makeup and camera flash, unevenly lit silhouettes of a crowd behind me, and the stage behind that. Gold Mourning, in all its glory. "The God King Eats Cake," with its three minute drum solo. Apex's head was raised to the sky, lipless teeth bared in a silent howl. I looked so happy. I'd snuck into that show, along with…

The other person in the photograph beside me wasn't smiling. She couldn't, really. The chitinous shapes I'd given her face couldn't quite flex enough for that kind of expression. But her eyestalks were wide, trying to take in everything, and I knew how happy she had been, that night. Our first GM show, seeing the most beautiful monster in person. The only one she would ever attend.

"Ant," I murmured, and my vision went a little blurry. I dabbed my eyes with my napkin before I streaked my makeup again. I saw Mom and Dad quietly glance at each other and hold hands.

"Hmm?" Apex was looking down at me, curiosity and concern in his white-gray eyes.

I took a deep breath, closed the photo album, laid it on the table, out of reach of the food.

When I didn't say anything, chewing on my thoughts for a minute, Dad spoke up instead. "Anthony—"

"_Dad_," I snapped at him, and he quickly corrected himself, his cheeks reddening slightly.

"Antonia was a… close friend of hers. They had been inseparable ever since they were kids. He—_she_ was going through a very hard time in her life, and…"

I felt my fingertips ache, flexed them tightly, until the fingernails threatened to break skin on my palm. "I helped her… saved her life. But…" My voice was a harsh whisper, hoarse. Something was caught in my throat, and swallowing wouldn't make it go away. "We didn't stop. I didn't know how to make it all work right, and…"

Mom reached for my hand, and I kept very, very still. She squeezed it once, then pulled away, sadness in her eyes. "They found the note, after… after. It wasn't your fault. They knew what they were asking for." _She just wanted to be beautiful_. "No one blames you," she lied.

I couldn't look Apex in the eye, but saw him shift, reach out towards me. One giant hand rested on the top of my head, palming it like a softball, squashing my mohawks flat. I couldn't find it in me to complain, even as the claws scraped lightly on the skin of my cheek, my neck, little pinpricks of pain.

"So," Dad said, before I could bolt, or start sobbing, or do something I would regret. "How did you two meet?"

A blatant redirection, but if it was going to keep me from crying I was going to take it. I spoke at the same time Apex did.

"At a show—" "Domestic terrorism."

I paused, then glared at Apex, his hand still resting on my head. Not… untrue, technically speaking. But still, these were my _parents_. They didn't need to know about the group of struggling no-name villains I'd found, how I'd convinced them that their shot at greatness was one deliberately-poorly-planned attack away. How I'd _allegedly _gathered a group of small-time thieves, muggers and wannabe murderers to serve as my ticket to this new life. If he tried to spill any more details, I'd… take his lips back, or something. The jerk. Of all the things for him to remember about me!

Mom and Dad exchanged glances, silent communication going on with their quickly-changing expressions.

"...Well, our Jennifer never did think small."

"It's _Mera _now, Dad," I said on autopilot.

"Lipstick, actually."

"Oh my god Apex _no._" Apex rubbed my head one more time, jostling me, before pulling his hand back, looking smug. Probably because he was out of reach of my elbow. Definitely considering payback. Take a whole horn off of him this time, perhaps. For private use.

Mom looked visibly confused, raising her eyebrows at the beautiful fucker. He made a little satisfied growl in his throat that might have been a chuckle, then explained, "She gave me lips." Damn right I did. No more little robo voice for him. I started digging into the dumplings again, even though it didn't taste as good as it had a few minutes ago.

"Oh, I see." My mother nodded.

"And a penis."

I coughed right as I had tried to swallow, immediately began choking, hacking.

"A… penis?"

"I lost mine."

I reached over and slapped his arm, wheezing, desperately trying to get him to stop. Mom and Dad exchanged looks again, and this time Mom spoke, before I could recover and try to head this conversation off from going any further. "Well… sex is an important part of relationships. I'm… are you two being safe?"

"_Mom!_" I stared at her. Where was this when I was living at home!? Had I actually been gone long enough that they stopped trying to control every part of my life and became… _this_?

"I try not to break too many bones," Apex rumbled, sounding entirely too fucking pleased with himself.

"That's… that's good."

"We have a very good health plan," he continued, then took half of his steak out with one bite, impervious to the laser beams I was staring into his face. Oh, he was going to fucking _pay _for this later. I'd find a way. I'd recruit Happy Pill or Firecracker if I had to.

"That's... a relief," Dad said, a little uncertain. "I imagine it can get dangerous out on tour, driving around the country." At least Ninny attacks didn't make the news most of the time. I didn't need them worrying any more than they already were. Although I would happily describe one in graphic detail just for a change in fucking topic.

Mom brightened a little, beaming that look she had when she had something she thought was interesting to contribute. "I was a groupie once, you know."

I coughed again, right in the middle of a gulp of water, trying to wash down the dumplings. Croaking, I tried to clarify for her. "You mean, uh, roadie, right Mom?"

Now it was Mom's turn to look entirely too pleased with herself. "Oh, no, I mean groupie. It's how I met your father, actually."

I stared at them, a rising horror curling in my stomach, ice cold. "You said you met while he was working security!"

"We did! He was the one checking IDs at the back door, at the afterparties."

Dad held Mom's hand again, smiling fondly down at her, mustache shifting. "I couldn't let Bruce have _all _the fun."

So this was what having a nervous breakdown felt like. _I regret everything_.

Apex chuffed with amusement, sending napkins fluttering. He turned to me, expression pleased as punch. "I don't know why you were worried. Your folks seem nice."

I was this close to pulling my mohawks out with my bare hands. _But at least he was enjoying himself_!?

Dad was completely unfazed by my despair at these soul-crushing revelations. "What are your parents like?"

Apex just stared at him for a moment. I quickly spoke up for him, despite my own distress. "Dad, he's a cee-fifty-three, he doesn't—"

"They were kind," Apex rumbled, and—wait.

I slowly turned to look up at him. He looked off into the distance, thoughtful, his voice quiet. "He was quiet, but supportive. She had a laugh that filled any room. Very loving, both of them."

A pause, and his whole body sagged a bit, in stages, like a deflating bouncy castle.

"I miss them."

Mom and Dad offered their condolences. I just stared at him, wondering… was he lying for their benefit? For mine? Had I ever actually seen him lie before? Or… did he actually…

Did he really remember?

_Who even are you, Apex?_

The long, somewhat awkward silence was broken one more time. Mom, reaching over to pat Apex on a furry shoulder, only recoiling a little bit when the cilia reached back, waving around her hand.

"I'm sure you two would be great parents."

That got Apex to snap out of his daze, first staring at them, then slowly panning his head to look at me. "Um."

"You're still young, J—Mera," Mom continued, shattering what little was left of my brain to pieces. "Your father and I wouldn't mind seeing some grandkids someday, you know. I'm sure—"

"_Hey Mom, Dad, it's been great but we've got to go!_"

It was a long drive back to camp. The van was large, riding low on its suspension, and cramped. Apex's head leaned out over the front row of seats, looking out the windshield, his body curled up into a space too small for him. He fits, he sits.

"They were nice," he said, as I tried not to get lost on the freeway, now that the sun had set and what few landmarks I was trying to use for reference were hidden.

"They're a lot," was all I could say, pulling over to look at the map again. As soon as I put the parking brake on, I felt a tickle of fur, stopped reaching for the glove compartment as Apex's head and neck filled my vision, him snuggling with me from the shoulders up. I leaned into it, blowing a sigh into his fur, which continued waving even after the breath had passed. "Thank you," I said, still slightly numb after the whole ordeal. Certainly drained. But it had been my idea, my thought to bring us closer together, to show him where I had come from, to tie him into my life as much as he'd pulled me into his own.

The whole van rumbled as he hummed up against me in response. He seemed content to stay like that for a bit, and I didn't feel like making him stop so we could keep driving. It had started snowing again, but softly, little flurries dancing through the air, illuminated by headlights. Pools of light and motion in a cold, dark night. Warm, in here, thanks to Apex.

As good a time as any for the next step of my plan.

I reached for the glove compartment again, Apex shifting accommodatingly. I pulled out a small rectangular box, as long as my hand, an inch across. My heart was pounding, my fingers aching, but he just looked down at the box… gave it a long sniff, his nostrils flaring, head tilting slightly.

I held it up for him to take, and his two smaller arms snaked between the front row of seats, his lower shoulders twisting, realigning with a soft squelching sound in the tight confines of the van. He sniffed it again, and looked at me, his eyes questioning.

"It's a gift," I sighed out, voice barely audible. I knew he would hear it anyway.

Long, slender fingers carefully pulled off the lid of the small gray box. On top of the black pad of foam was a bracelet, or a small necklace, depending. Small, oddly-shaped beads of ivory strung together on leather, little etched patterns on the surface. Happy Pill said it was called scrimshaw; I just knew it had been a lot of very precise work with my fingernail.

He looked at it, his mouth opening, then closing. He sniffed it again, nostrils flaring wide, taking in the scent.

Finally, he rumbled, "It's you."

I nodded, clenching and unclenching my freshly regrown fingers. It had been a process, explaining my plan to Black Goat and Happy Pill, but after some cajoling, begging, promising and some light cosmetic modifications to Happy Pill that she was mildly confused at but Black Goat was quite pleased with, the project had come together.

"Carry it with you. So you'll always have my scent," I whispered. A piece of me, to match the piece of him, the tip of his horn digging into my chest on its leather cord.

He was silent for a long minute, staring at the jewelry. I felt a sinking, cold feeling in my stomach, a lead weight settling deeper with each passing second. I hadn't… I had a track record of not… what if he…

"_I might break it_," he said, his voice nearly as quiet as my own. There was no reverb, no rattling of my skeleton this time. It was a whisper I'd never heard him make before, so faint I could barely hear him myself.

I took a deep breath, then held up my hand. Aching faintly, but unmarked. "I'll make another one."

He mutilated himself constantly. What kind of girlfriend would I be if I couldn't handle a little bit of the same?

With one last look at me, his gray-white eyes unreadable, he tilted his head slightly, lowering it so his left horn was in reach. The one with the missing tip. Carefully, slowly, I tied the strand of beads around the base of his horn, where cilia quickly tucked it into place, unmoving.

And then, gently, carefully, he leaned over and kissed me.

We never actually made it back to camp that night.

When I woke up the next morning, he was gone.


	25. M : Our Schedules Permitting

It took me a while to get back, not helped by the numb haze that blanketed reality, making my movements slow, thoughts difficult to connect.

Lost? Pulled out map. Couldn't remember where camp was.

Call camp? Phone dead. Found cable. Plugged in phone. Ran engine to charge it.

Drive back? Almost out of gas. Another ten mile detour, running on fumes, to find an open gas station.

It took me several minutes sitting in the slowly cooling van after finally arriving at the camp to actually get out of the vehicle. Longer to find Pizza's trailer. Longer, still, to gather the courage to knock on the door.

Pizza was awake, at least. Made tea for me, sitting on his bed in a daze. Everything had been… everything had been going so well. Why did he leave? Was it me?

He pulled up the map on his monitors without asking. Fiddled with it. Shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "His phone isn't responding." It had probably died, like mine.

Or was it me?

He fussed over me, pulling up blankets to wrap around my shoulders. Made sure I drank the tea, mug warm in my hands. He asked me a few questions, but I couldn't gather the energy to respond with more than one word answers. How was the visit? Fine. Did he get along with your parents? Sure. Did he like your gift?

I looked over at him with what felt like tremendous difficulty. I hadn't told him about it, but he knew a lot of what went on at camp. Probably got told by Happy Pill or… no, it was Black Goat, the gossip. Yes. He _had _liked it. He had had me put it on him. He had seemed to be thanking me for it, afterward.

Or maybe he was saying goodbye?

My vision started to blur, so I closed my eyes. Felt my cheeks go hot, my breath start to come in little gasps and hiccups. Something soft was pressed into my hand. A tissue. I didn't bother using it.

"I am sure he is fine," Pizza insisted, a little panicked, his lightly accented words coming quickly. "He always comes back. Sometimes he gets lost for a few days, but then we will see him on the news or the Protectorate will fetch him for us. He will be back in time for the performance. He has never missed a show."

I opened my eyes just to give him a dumbfounded look. "I woke up—" _sniffle _"—alone in the van in the middle of fucking—" _hiccup _"—nowhere and you tell me _he will be fine_." Anger, yes. Anger was good.

He floundered for a moment, then pinched the bridge of his nose with short, pudgy fingers. His bulk deflated a little with a long sigh. "He is a man driven by purpose, Miss Mera. It is... important."

"More important than me," I said, the hiccups having faded slightly as the anger rose and fell.

"More important than all of us," he replied. His expression was solemn, and earnest in a way that gave me little doubt that he believed it was true.

I nodded slowly, considering, taking a deep breath, in and out. It still hurt—_oh god, how it ached_—but I would always rather see the ugly truth than a pretty lie. Better to have a higher calling than to simply not care about me… right? I would still kick his ass for leaving me like that, though.

And Pizza's ass as well, if he didn't quit being so vague and mysterious at me when I was already having a _very difficult morning_. "What **is** this top secret, super fucking important thing he keeps running off for?"

His face pinched, and I half expected yet another deflection. Or perhaps 'you are not ready for the truth, young padawan', and I'd have to go on a spirit quest or eat some shrooms or—okay maybe I was a little loopy. I sipped the tea while he thought.

"Miss Mera," he said slowly, and I braced myself for the nonsense to follow. "You have been kind to me." Wait, what? "Not once since we have met did you ever stare, or comment, or look at me with pity. It is a privilege few monsters like us are afforded." Hold on a second. _Like us?_

His face was determined, eyes bright. "I cannot tell you what he is doing. But I can tell you where he should be, and you may ask him yourself."

I blinked, the remnants of fog still clinging to my thoughts making it difficult to follow all of that. "I… I thought you said his phone was off?"

His smile was bittersweet and tired, old beyond his years. He gave me an address. And insisted I eat before I left. It would be a long drive.

It took me a long time to find the alleyway, even with instructions. This city had a million of them, and they were all so damn similar. What was it Ant had said once? 'You are in a maze of twisty little passages, all alike'?

I missed that colossal nerd.

It was in the company of the ghost of her regrets that I walked through the city at night, staring at my phone—I was in full costume, I wasn't an idiot—until I heard a familiar, bass rumble. I stopped, looking around; I couldn't see him, but I could just barely make out the words.

"No, I'm not here for you."

He was talking to someone, but… was his voice coming from above me? I kept very still, strained my ears, trying to tune out the sounds of the city, the low growls of distant traffic.

"I don't think it's a coincidence, but I'm not looking for a fight right now, either."

I couldn't hear who he was responding to, but I was starting to narrow down where he was. Was it that rooftop? I circled the building, looking for—there, a fire escape. I moved quietly, pausing every time he started to speak.

"No, I'm not with them."

It was hard to keep my boots from making a ton of noise on the metal staircase, but I did my best, my clawed fingers gripping tightly to the guard rail, testing my weight on every step, trying to keep it from—

"She's with me."

Welp. So much for that. I stopped bothering to keep quiet, instead climbing the fire escape normally. Only two floors, and then I would see his silent conversation partner, and… and him. My breath caught in my throat when I realized what he'd said.

He…

He had remembered me. Even though it had been over a day. Even though he couldn't see me yet.

I dashed up the last few steps to see an unadorned roof, just an air conditioning unit and a satellite dish on top, along with the most beautiful monster. Apex, laying on his stomach, his limbs all tucked up beside and beneath him, like a cat. His back was to me, his tail whipping back and forth slowly, then faster as I approached, boots crunching on the gravel roof top. As soon as I got within reach of it, though, it settled, laying down flat.

"I am not saying I don't _want _to fight you. Just that you will need to make an appointment."

His voice was low, only carrying as well as it did because I'd apparently stumbled right beneath him. Was he talking on the phone? I couldn't see anyone else on the rooftop, and his head was almost over the edge, looking slightly downward, into the streets below. As I got closer I could see a small pile of loose brick on the gravel beside him, some cracked, some scored with claw marks.

Apex's head turned slightly towards me as I drew even with his shoulders, high and hunched from his crouched posture. I could see the changes from his play sessions with Firecracker, the extra crystal growths, the lengthening and thickening of cilia along his back that were almost becoming tentacles. Simply beautiful.

He spoke his low rumble again, but I could see no phone, no headset. Like he were speaking into the wind. "I don't care how big you are right now, or how hot I make you. I am waiting for someone else. Make an appointment."

He didn't move much. Just a slight flaring of his nostrils. One of his tongues flicked out, upward, licking the base of his horn. The broken one. The one with his trophy, from me, tied around it. The other tongue darted towards me, its rough, dry texture lightly scraping my cheek. Then, as quickly as they appeared, they retracted into his mouth, whiplike.

"I know you," he said quietly, and my heart cracked, relief and pity and joy and sorrow threatening to make me burst into tears again. I reached out and dug my fingers into the fur of his neck, scraping the talons of my costume into him, his favorite scritches. He didn't purr, but his tail did start moving again, the tips of its spikes driving a furrow through the gravel behind us.

His gray-white eyes seemed to see right through me, and I remembered the first night we met, that feeling of awe. How invulnerable he seemed. Untouchable.

He sniffed again, then his head tilted towards me a little more sharply. "You've been crying. Why?"

I couldn't help it. I laughed, tears once threatening, now overflowing. I ran my other hand along the top of his muzzle, claws scraping against scale, admiring the lines of his body, even half-blind from crying.

"Oh," he rumbled, the sound transmitted through the soles of my boots as it shook the rooftop. So resigned, so full of regret. "It was me."

Before I could respond, tell him it was alright, his head jerked away, aimed at the darkness below, streets with broken lights. "No I'm not talking to you. This is a private conversation. Fuck off, you overgrown salamander."

A brief pause as I laughed at the sheer absurdity of the situation, then he finished with, "I look forward to your appointment." And then whoever he was talking to must have gone, vanished into the city, because his attention was solely on me.

"I'm sorry," he said, one of his large claws reaching up and—ever so carefully, so gently—brushing some tears from my cheek. "Whatever I did, I'm sorry."

I took his hand, nuzzled the palm against my face, feeling the warm scales on my skin. Kissed it for good measure. His whole body reacted to that, a mountain of muscle, fur and spikes shifting just enough to arc around me, as though he could wrap his whole body around me in a hug. Protective.

I tried to speak, scrounged for the right words, found nothing. Maybe I didn't need to say anything at all.

Well. One thing.

"What the hell are you doing out here, anyway?"

Without removing his hand from my grip, one of his middle arms reached down to pluck a small scrap of paper where it was buried among the cracked, clawed-up bricks. It was yellowed and stained, and the handwriting was hard to read, spidery and uneven. In the partially-moonlit darkness I had to pull my phone out to read it.

'April 11th, 2011. After midnight.'

And then, in smaller, tighter script, but still by the same hand: 'Talk to her."'

I looked at it. Flipped it over. "That's it?"

He nodded slightly.

For a long moment, I stared at him. Then at the paper. "What the fuck?"

He chuckled, his whole body shaking with the sound. The same middle limb plucked something else from the rubble. Another flash drive. I took it, wondering what was on it. I suppose we would find out when we got back to Pizza.

Then a thought struck me, and I looked down into the darkness, then over the rooftops. Distant shapes, maybe my imagination, no one else in sight. "Who are you waiting for?" It hadn't sounded like it was me, the way he was talking with whoever or whatever this 'salamander' was.

Apex just shrugged, shifting gravel with his elbows.

I leaned into him, back pressed against his shoulders, and his larger arm tucked me in tight against him, just loose enough to still breathe. He was warm, the air was chill and as silent as cities got in the middle of the night—sirens, the occasional gunshot or scream in the distance—and there was nowhere else I would rather have been.

This time, when I woke up and saw the sunrise, orange light reflected on the ocean to the east…

He was there by my side, making the world right.


	26. Just Too Scared To Run

When I woke up, the world had somehow turned upside down.

On impulse I released my grip on what turned out to be the ceiling, and immediately fell ten feet to the metal floor, covered in pillows and dog beds, somehow twisting instinctively to land on my feet… all six of them. I looked down at myself in confusion, pausing just long enough to confirm that yes, that sinuous, muscular tail was _mine_... and then I started screaming. Even that sound shocked me—it was a diesel engine growl, more animal than human, and trying to squash the bellowing only resulted in guttural, bestial grunts and deep rumbles I could feel in my—

Jesus christ, my fur was prehensile.

Jesus christ, _I had fur_.

I could feel the vibrations through it, minute twitches of the air, which tasted—

...Wow, they kept going, huh. Two tongues. Five feet long. Ten. Fifteen?

There was a tension in them, and I let it loose for a moment, only to startle at the sudden _snap, crackle, pop_ of electricity arcing between the barbed tips of my tongues. And down them. And along my whole body, which was—

I stumbled awkwardly over clawed feet and what might have been hands to the back of the… it had to be an eighteen-wheeler trailer, but felt far too small for that. My back (spiked!) nearly scraped the ceiling, and I caught my head (horns!) on the edge of the doorway before looking out into a barren field. Dusty and dry, flat and orange in the morning sunlight, with distant mirages of lights that may have been a city near the horizon. Turned my head to the side—my neck was so _long_—and saw other trailers, campers, RVs, vans, a whole caravan of vehicles sprawled out in vaguely-ordered chaos. People were waking up, dozens of them, and some had started moving my way, maybe from the horrifying animal sounds I had made moments earlier.

Who the fuck were these people?

Where was I? _What_ was I?

What the ever-loving FUCK was going on!?

It took me a second to realize one of the people was talking at me. I thought he was still far away, or maybe he was just tiny… he seemed to barely reach my hips in height.

"Apex," the blond man said, hands half-raised in a calming motion. It was his expression that did it more than his posture, though—utterly calm, completely unconcerned. Was he Apex? No, that didn't fit. Was he calling me Apex?

I leaned down—and down, and down—until my face was a foot from his. Instinctively I sniffed the air, and then shook my head at the sudden onslaught of scents invading my senses. Car exhaust, sweat, dust, animals, leather, metal, antiperspirants, plastic, gasoline, hair products, more subtle differences in exhalations and sweat that made me think he was a healthy enough man, although he hadn't gotten enough sleep lately, and the last time he had sex he—

I snorted out, sending his tie fluttering, but his gaze didn't waver. "Apex," he repeated, his voice still calm, still self-assured, still unshakably confident. "It is alright. You are safe here. Everything is fine."

"'Ere ah I?" I tried to form words, but things were… missing. And the animal rumbles that came out of my throat were deep, brutal growls. Monster sounds.

He seemed to understand me just fine, at least. "We are three hours outside of Phoenix, Arizona. The year is twenty-ten. You are among friends here. All of your—"

"No," I growled back, shaking my head, fur whipping around. "No, no, no," I insisted, grateful I could at least say that word without issue even as I recoiled from a year I knew was wrong. The year was _wrong_. Everything was…

"All of your questions will be answered. Just stay calm. Focus on your breathing and—"

He took a sudden step backwards, a crackle of electricity missing him by inches. It was coming off of me in waves, my fur rippling, changing colors, sickly greens, ugly bruised yellows and purples, deep fuschias. I was a rainbow lightning dinosaur muppet and _absolutely nothing made any sense_.

I smelled more people, saw them without turning my head their way somehow. A loose semicircle of them, twenty or so feet behind whoever the blond man was. Lots of blacks and denims, sturdy work clothes, caked with sweat and dust. Was it hot out? It looked hot. Didn't feel it, though. I smelled them, practically tasted them. One, covered in tattoos, smelled like ash and charcoal. Another, a smaller woman, smelled like nail polish remover and battery acid. Strange scents, but… almost… familiar?

Their expressions were mixed. Some were afraid, which made sense. Others, like the chemical woman, looked concerned, confused. Some, like the man of burning, looked… sad. Pitying.

More were crawling out of the woodwork, the circus camp behind them, which the trailer and I were at the edge of. Most seemed to be going about their business, although a handful at a time would stop and look our way, at the commotion I was causing. At the lightning storm raging around me, arcs hitting the cracked, dry ground, leaving little blackened craters in their wake.

One particularly enthusiastic bolt leapt out to a nearby truck, which bounced on its suspension, rocking from the impact, starting to smoke. And yet the blond man stood unwavering, unflinching. At most, he would shift his weight slightly, almost accidentally moving out of the way of the crackling energy bursting from my body. Even gravity seemed to react to my distress, my body fluctuating from feeling so heavy I risked sinking through the cracked ground to so light a breeze could have blown me away, all seemingly at random.

"You are okay, Apex. All of this is going according to plan. I promise."

His voice was raised to be heard over the lightning, but it was no more emotional or distressed than his expression. Placid, yet focused. He didn't… he didn't smell like he was concerned, either.

A tension inside me eased slightly, and the electricity faded, save for the occasional staticky _pop_. My weight settled, feet resting on shallow, blackened craters, but my fur still writhed, animating in vivid, technicolor patterns.

"Hlease," I rumbled at him, begging, pleading, front claws digging deep furrows into the dirt as I clenched my fists, leaning my weight heavily forward, closer to him. "Hlease talk to ee. Who are you? What's wrong with ee?"

"Shh," he said, like he was reassuring a frightened animal—a disturbingly apt comparison—the picture of calm reason. "Don't be afraid. It will all become clear shortly." One hand reached inside his jacket, immaculate, somehow largely free of dust. Only his hair was out of place, and he smoothed it with his other hand as the first pulled out a phone. A few taps with his thumb, and a voice, tinny and small but undeniably familiar, emerged from the device.

"_Hey, brother. I'm sure you're confused right now, but I promise: you are okay."_

I _knew _that voice. Slightly deeper, a little rougher, but almost _painful _in how normal it sounded. A beacon, a life preserver thrown to a drowning man, and I clung to it, leaning my enormous, horned head closer to hear.

"_The first thing you should know is this: you are on Earth Bet."_


	27. M : Only Those That Are Born

There was something to be said about being literally swept off one's feet. I couldn't help but giggle as Apex did just that as he squeezed himself out of the van back at camp. I wrapped my arms tightly around his neck (or as much of it as I could reach around), and together we made a beeline for Pizza's trailer. The soft—for him, anyway—humming he did as he walked vibrated through my entire body, a little distractingly, despite the multiple stops we'd made on the way back… on the way back _home_.

What a thought. Was it the tour, the crew and music and camaraderie, or was it just Apex that made this place home? I decided it didn't matter. I'd take it all.

Pizza was already waiting for us, seated over by the entrance of his trailer. Oh, that's right—we'd charged Apex's phone on the way, so he must have tracked us. Or maybe he just knew when we would arrive with his mysterious secrets. "Welcome back," he called out, his faintly accented voice as calm as always. I waved. Apex waved. Pizza waved us all inside.

It was a bit of a tight squeeze, with Apex. Fortunately, his limbs were modular, and when he made himself _really_ light he was almost squishy. Even more of a giant plushie. Fuck, I had it _bad_.

Once we had settled in, Apex handed over the flash drive he'd recovered from the rooftop. Pizza took it, then paused, looking at me, then back at Apex. A warning? Asking for permission?

Apex leaned forward a little in the cramped confines of the previously roomy trailer. Took a big sniff, nostrils flaring, a foot from Pizza's face. With one of his large claws, he pinched the bridge of his muzzle, eyebrows low, like he was closing his eyes in thought. After a moment, he nodded.

"Show her," he rumbled. "From the beginning."

Pizza only watched him for a few seconds, as if unsure, then nodded back. "It is your story, friend."

We shifted so we could all huddle around the computer. The flash drive was inserted, copied, while he selected another folder, behind several passwords. Half-nestled on Apex's lap, I watched as a video began to play.

"_Hey, brother. I'm sure you're confused right now, but I promise: you are okay."_

It was a video log of some kind. A man alone on a dark background, the vague hint of shapes or maybe people behind him, out of focus and lost in shadow. The man was my age, perhaps a bit younger, narrow-shouldered, and seemed short, although he was sitting, only visible from the waist up. Bald head, scraps of what might have once been a beard, and a streak of gray, pebbly skin slashed diagonally across his chin, face and scalp. He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes—and his eyes were solid black surrounded by gray skin, no iris or whites.

"_The first thing you should know is this: you are on Earth Bet."_

Wait, what? Where else would he be? I glanced up at Apex… but his expression was unreadable, his face aimed at the video screen, focused.

"_The year is two thousand and three. Yeah. I know_." The man ran his hand down his face, seeming tired, maybe overwhelmed. I noticed his hands were also gray, and short claws where nails should be—black, sharp, and wickedly curved. Shapeshifter? Or… he'd said he was Apex's brother. Similar powers?

"_The good news is, there is a plan. Contingencies. Better minds than our own have ensured that. We have a part to play, if we want to."_ A plan for what? "_I'm leaving you notes. Hints. Scavenger hunts. Your mission, should you choose to accept it. Little things to make the world a better place. Save some good people. Kill some bad ones. Things to keep you busy, brother._"

His tone had been somewhat light until now, if weary, but then he dropped all pretense of humor for a moment, his eyes looking straight into the camera. "_After all, eight years is a very long time_."

The video ended. Pizza moused over to the next one, and I noticed the date on the filenames as he did. The next video had been recovered—I did a bit of mental math—just about seven years ago. I looked up at Apex, his face looming above mine, but he was completely still except for the glacial rise and fall of his chest. I could just feel the triple-beat of his heart thudding against my back, pressed up against him as I was.

Very little time had passed between the videos, if the man's appearance could be used for comparison. A different shirt, a slight creep of gray skin across his cheeks and scalp. "_I'm proud of you. If you've made it this far, you've already accomplished very big things. Mom and Dad would be proud_." Tears welled up in his eyes, his smile cracking.

These were… time capsules. Pre-recorded messages to the future. It fit what Pizza had hinted at before, at least. Apex had never mentioned a brother, but until a couple days ago he had never mentioned parents, either...

Another timeskip. Same shirt this time, no visible changes aside from a dark smudge around his eyes. The two had been recorded one after another, even though the date on the file showed it had been two years since the previous one had been found. "_I wish I could have seen the look on his face. Fuck you, Geoff. We've still gotta hold onto the leash ourselves, for a bit. Make sure some things happen in the right order. Trust that it's in good hands, though._" Who the fuck was Geoff, and what did Apex do to him?

"_Speaking of which—are you taking care of yourself? Drinking enough water? Keeping good company? There's a lot of margin of error, where we're involved, but I've heard some neat possibilities_." The man's low, bass voice was soothing, encouraging. Almost familiar. "_Keep challenging yourself. You've made it this far, you can go the distance._"

That sounded like some sort of precog at work. It didn't fit his appearance, but powers were weird. Or maybe someone else was the precog? It didn't make much sense, but just seeing these videos… it was a look into Apex's life, into his family perhaps, that no one else in the world save Pizza had ever seen. So I didn't ask questions or interrupt. Just sat and watched.

Another year advance on the date, another new shirt for the man in the video. "_Here's a treat for you, since you've probably had a very rough few weeks, if the plan worked out this far ahead. When we were seven years old, we went camping with the family. Dad woke us up in the middle of the night, hiked us out to the top of that hill, showed us the stars. We stopped using a nightlight after that, because we saw there could be beauty in darkness_." The man let out a low, wistful sigh. "_I thought you'd like that. You're probably long past any fear of the dark now, though_."

The next few videos were more things like that. Short snippets. A story, or a series of bad jokes about deer. Melancholy, wistfulness, reaching out across the gulf of years, perhaps distance. There were hints of movement behind him, people perhaps shuffling in and out of frame, still too dark to make out details. Found five years ago, four, three, two and a half, two, increasingly more frequent. I was absorbed, even as the stories grew a bit nonsensical, referencing things I didn't recognize. Inside jokes, perhaps.

"_If you're hearing this, you're almost there. I'm… I'm very, very proud of you. You're… you're so much stronger than I am_." He bit his lip, his teeth sharklike and densely packed. He took a deep breath, shuddering a little on the exhale, and looked into the camera once again, resolute. "_The truth is… I fucked up_."

"_Mom and Dad don't exist here. They checked. Maybe for the best. I wouldn't know how we would… anyway. I also looked up Diana. She's doing fine here. Got married a bit younger, never divorced. She's a nurse now. Can't say if she was better off with or without us, but you don't have to worry about her, at least_."

If I hadn't been leaning into his chest, I might have missed the sudden hitch in Apex's breathing. A catch in his throat. I… I didn't know what to think. Didn't _exist _here? Where was Apex _from_?

I considered asking who Diana was. Just for a moment. Then I decided I probably didn't want to know.

"_Eight years is a long time. Twenty? I can't… but you, you've made it_." The man smiled, a little wryly, a little teasing. "_She said you've probably found someone special. I… I hope it lasts_."

The video ended. I saw the dates—this was the second to last video. From... from the night of our fight, when he leapt out from the back of the moving trailer. I thought he had been running away. Instead, he had been getting… that. Who was 'she'? It was weirdly flattering to think this mystery precog had foreseen me, but that ending had been... ominous.

Pizza paused before opening the last video, hand poised over the mouse. Shit, I'd almost forgotten he was here. He took a deep breath, then clicked, the media player taking up the whole screen once more. This was the video he'd left me alone on the side of the highway for. I hoped it would actually _answer _some questions.

"_You've made it, brother. Good job_." The man wearily waved his hands. Jazz hands—jazz claws. "_I wasn't sure if you would. I know I couldn't_." He let out a huge sigh, then leaned forward onto his elbows, resting his forehead on the heels of his claws, hiding his face. "_I know I couldn't. The pain, it_…" He chuckled dryly, then looked up at the camera again, baring his teeth in a bitter smile. "_I sound so dramatic. 'I can't bear the pain'. But it's the opposite. I hate how good it feels. How good raw meat tastes. I'm… I'm becoming a monster, and…_"

His words sped up, like he was trying to them all out at once. "_And I'm not strong enough. Not for eight years, or fifteen, or twenty. I miss Mom and Dad. I miss our friends. I miss everything. And I_…" He paused to take another deep, shaky breath, letting it out slowly, a low hiss.

"Oh. Oh, no," Apex's voice rumbled around me, jarring.

"_I need you to be_—"

A long, clawed arm shot out abruptly, hit a key. The video stopped.

I shook my head, blinking quickly. I'd been so distracted, and turning up to look at Apex, he had…

He was curling in on himself, head buried in his elbows, arms protecting his head in a defensive posture I'd never seen him take before. His crystal spikes jutted out like spears, bristling menacingly, but the way his tail wrapped around him looked more afraid than aggressive. I twisted around, wondering when he'd started—as my gaze passed over Pizza, I saw him looking away, eyes low… but not surprised. A question for later. For now, I reached out, put a hand on Apex's crossed forearms. "Are you alright?"

"No."

Okay, maybe that was a stupid question. I gestured with a thumb at the screen, knowing he could see me even though his face was covered. For a moment my mouth just opened, wondering what to say. Start at the beginning. "He was your brother?"

"No," he repeated. His body shifted without moving, like a coiled snake twisting around itself. His voice was quiet, for him, which meant it vibrated the faux hardwood floor beneath my feet. "I don't want you to watch any more. I know what this is, now."

It took a second for me to find one of his hands, tucked into himself as he was. I clutched it as tightly as I dared. "Apex, baby. I have a lot of questions, but… my dear, sweet, beautiful monster, I don't care what he could _possibly _say right now. I'm here for you, no matter what." He shifted again, which meant I might have gotten my point across. "There's nothing that video could show me that—"

"It's a suicide note."

My words died, my breath caught in my throat. All of the air had been sucked out of the room.

Apex slowly opened his forearms, his eyes aimed towards me. Watching me. His lips moved again. The floor rumbled with his words.

"It's _my _suicide note."

_Oh god. Not again_. Images flashed through my mind faster than I could stop them. Warping flesh under inexpert hands, tearful smiles, shallow, pained breaths. _I am your canvas,_ she'd whispered. The world spun dizzyingly, my stomach leaping into my throat, then burying itself in the floorboards.

My hands clenched so tightly my claws buried themselves in my palms, blood trickling down my knuckles, onto the floor. _I wouldn't turn away. I wouldn't_.

A clawed hand slowly pried open one of my fists, taking my hand in his, and I felt my power thrumming beneath his skin, singing to me, ready to twist and reshape and smear and _ruin_. Dangerous, like the smallest unwary movement would tear him limb from limb. Except…

Except _his _body took whatever I gave him and made it his own. I opened my eyes—I hadn't realized I'd closed them—and looked at him, as though for the first time, slightly blurred through tears. The skin flaps that retracted, tight against his side, where it could be covered by his fur. The lips, tougher now, slightly armored. His horn… and the nubs starting to grow behind them, the beginnings of a second row. For the first time, the idea that my power might stop working on him was actually a _relief_.

That eased the knot in my chest a little. Just enough for me to grip his hand back, holding it to my chest. It pushed in the necklace, the artifact, the tip of his horn burying itself in my skin, like the pinpricks of his claw points. A good pain.

My voice was hoarse, barely recognizable, but he understood. "Play it."

Without taking his eyes off of me, he turned us around until we faced the screen once more.

He pressed play.

"—_stronger than me_." Tears were in his eyes, too, but black and oily, like pitch. "_I need you to be the me I'm afraid to be_." The man on the video let out a bitter, sorrowful chuckle. "_Can't lose what you give up first, right?_" He shook his head. "_I'm sorry for putting this burden on you, brother. But I know it will be fine. In the end, it will all be… just fine_."

The back of a clawed finger wiped a black tear from his cheek. He looked at it for a moment, then sniffed. "_No point in dragging it out. I guess this is goodbye_." One last smile. "_See you on the other side_."

Then I noticed a shape onscreen. Someone being moved into frame, a heavy wheelchair, a broad, limbless shape. Bald. Eyes focused on the person who would one day be Apex. A familiar face.

The man spoke one last time. "_Do it, Slug_." The briefest of pauses, then, "_Please_."

I wanted to reach out, to stop whatever was about to happen, to somehow change the past… but the thought of stopping the video never crossed my mind once. I wouldn't look away. I would bear witness, this time. I would be there.

On the screen, Pizza's eyes glowed white for a moment. Past Apex stiffened, his eyes going white as well, before the light faded, leaving only black eyes on gray scales.

And then… he blinked. Looked around. Looked at his hands. Then up at the camera.

The video cut out, leaving the trailer in tense, breathless silence.

It was still hard to breathe. Only Apex's heartbeat, so close to mine, pushed me to shakily inhale, exhale. I smelled coppery blood, my own sweat, and the warm musk of Apex's scent, still alive, still here.

I slowly turned to look at Pizza, who was watching me with sad, mournful eyes. "What—" I choked, throat dry. "What did you do?"

"I killed him," he admitted, voice a low whisper. He looked up, at the beautiful monster. "Apex is what survived."

Following his gaze, I saw Apex staring off into the distance at things I couldn't even imagine. He made a sound that started in his chest and stayed there, something like a garbage disposal being run empty for a second... and only now did I realize what it was.

"Oh, sweetheart," I sighed, and wrapped him as best as I could in a hug. He folded around me, cocooning me in his arms, his tail, the beating of his heart and the slow rise and fall of his chest, catching on his rumbling sobs.

I held him, the rest of the world forgotten, as he cried in a body that didn't know how to, anymore.


	28. Interlude: Prepare The Laser Beam

"You have a comprehensive work history, Miss Gutierrez. And you've handled my questions and hypothetical scenarios with admirable aplomb."

That was a fancy way of saying _I couldn't make you sweat_, she thought to herself. Ten years of working festivals, tours, and concerts had given her a considerable bank of experience, both in dealing with the problems that inevitably happened whenever you tried to put any kind of show together, and also in men who thought they could talk down to her about the very thing they had hired her to do. At least this one didn't try to look down her shirt.

That said, for the kind of money he was offering, she'd have dealt with a little ogling.

"The final step in your interview is meeting the leader of the band itself." _About fucking time_. Her 'talking to white people' voice was starting to run a little ragged. That, and the room was just this side of uncomfortably cold, and worryingly featureless. She'd been to corporate office trailers before, but this one felt entirely too much like an interrogation chamber on wheels.

The blond man pulled out his phone and sent off a quick message. He steepled his hands, waiting.

And then the door opened, and a monster poked his head in.

Seven feet tall, horned, scaled, and heavily muscled, the monster eyed her with glowing red eyes straight out of a horror film. Though, in this lighting? A rather poorly-produced horror film. No suspense, and too clear a picture of the antagonist. So she just eyed him back.

"Miss Gutierrez, I would like you to meet Apex. Drummer and vocalist."

Apex didn't offer a hand, but that was depressingly common, so she didn't take it personally. In this particular case, it might have actually been a courtesy, considering the size of the claws. What he did do was lean further into the room—a rather lengthy, spiky tail stretched out behind him to counterbalance—put his face uncomfortably close to hers, and sniffed.

On instinct, she reached into a belt pouch—yes, even for an interview, you'd be surprised how often they came in handy—and pulled out a piece of jerky. His eyes immediately laser-focused on it, his mouth opening, a pair of snake-like tongues just visible, their tips _barbed_.

"Sit."

He blinked.

_Shit_. Her reflexes had cost her, this time. Her dogs were _too _well-trained.

Then he sat down on his haunches, shaking the trailer with the settling of his weight on it.

Uh. Well. She supposed he'd earned it, technically. She threw him the jerky. It disappeared into his maw in a heartbeat, but she'd seen worse. She'd given a pit bull a hamburger for his birthday once.

"She's good," Apex said, picking himself up off the ground and scooting backwards out of the trailer, carefully keeping his horns from getting caught on the door frame.

Her interviewer watched all of that with the faintest look of amusement on his face. Wouldn't want to play him at poker. He did offer his hand for her to shake, though. "Welcome to the team, Miss Gutierrez."

She'd dealt with far worse bands, in her time. Bossy, demanding, unreasonable, spoiled, aggressive—they ran the gamut. This one was relatively chill, particularly the core members. She was surprised to find out Olaf had picked up a new gig so quickly after Death Strikes a Chord split up, and doubly surprised to discover he not only recognized her, but he even remembered her name. Kamala was a relative unknown, but if her worst sin was a debilitating addiction to phone gacha games, she'd take it. And Apex was easy enough to handle, once you figured out the tricks. And carried jerky.

Still, he never could remember her name. He did realize quickly enough that any question anyone had about what went where, who did what, or what time something needed to happen could be easily answered by pointing at her, though. When she wasn't in sight, however, he referred to her as "the bossy one with dreadlocks and duct tape who smells like dogs," then eventually "the bossy one with duct tape," and finally, inevitably, Duct Tape. She'd had worse nicknames, especially with some bands, so she took this one in stride. Even set a sort of trend.

Whatever got people to recognize her authority, she'd take it.

Of course, it meant she was always the first one called whenever anything ever broke pattern or needed arbitration. Two vendors claimed the same spot? Duct Tape would play Solomon. Stage trim got lost between cities? Duct Tape would set up Walmart and Home Depot sorties to craft a replacement out of bed sheets if she had to. Ludicrous inflatable stage monster horns weren't holding air? Conveniently, duct tape covered a multitude of sins, and with a variety of colors, too.

The drummer was curled up in a ball backstage and won't move and the show started in an hour?

She approached the spiky, bristly, and apparently now _furry _band leader slowly, her hands open, her footsteps loud. Behind her, other members of the crew were pretending to be busy, rubbernecking around crates and spools of cable while she actually did what needed doing. "Hey Big A, you doing alright?"

The hemispherical mass shifted, a head rising out from the curled up tangle of limbs and tail. Had he gotten bigger? She'd seen him change before, but this was a bit more than his usual 'claws slightly bigger' growth. His expressions were limited, but what she could read on his face was worrying. He looked… lost.

"I grew a lot," he rumbled, unusually quiet. "That's good. Right?"

Whatever she had been about to say disappeared when she noticed the blood splatter. A _lot_ of blood, staining his new fur, his muzzle, the tips of his horns, his forearms up to the elbows. He shifted as she watched, climbing to his feet. Between arms and legs there was a whole second pair of arms that hadn't been there when she'd seen him a few days earlier. And as the new thick fur coat both waved on its own and changed colors to dark, muddy reds and browns, she got a better look at the crystal spikes that jutted out from his back where before there had just been dark, bony spines.

"...Who?" was all she could say, almost immediately regretting it as he hunched down into himself a little, head lowered, not meeting her eyes.

"The nngh…" he trailed off, his mumbling sounding like a distant rumble of thunder.

"You don't have to tell me, Big A. I just want to know if I should be worried or not. Should I call Kurt?" When your effective boss was covered in blood that wasn't his own, a lawyer seemed like a good next step. And if you couldn't get a lawyer, getting someone lawyers feared was even better.

He cleared his throat, still not looking her in the eyes. "The Nine."

She furrowed her brow. "The nine wha…" No, he couldn't. "The _Slaughterhouse _Nine?"

He nodded. One of his bigger hands went to his stomach, like he felt sick. Which, for someone like him, was pretty concerning—she'd seen him eat a motorcycle once, on a dare.

She was getting distracted.

"You just attacked the Slaughterhouse Nine?" Another nod. "And you're not hurt, or…"

He made a low rumble in his throat. "Stomach ache. But no. Hurt is good." Not all of those consonants were there, technically, but she had had plenty of time to understand his ventriloquism act. There were worse speech impediments.

"And they are…"

"Dead."

"...Oh."

She couldn't even begin to consider the ramifications of that, but… as far as her job was concerned, it didn't change much. He was already rich. He already got into fights. Maybe it would be good publicity, but that wasn't her department. More importantly, he looked…

Now she recognized that look. He looked _guilty_.

She took a few steps forward, boots crunching on the dust and gravel backstage. There was a lot to do and time was short, but damnit, the well-being of her band was part of her job as well. And this boy needed pets.

He didn't flinch away when she patted him on the head, which was a good sign. "Big A," she said quietly, and his head shifted ever so slightly to look her way. She did her best to ignore the blood in his fur, on her hand now. "You just killed a bunch of terrible murderers the world will never miss. They were bad people, and you did a good thing, okay?"

Apex closed his eyes, leaning ever so slightly into her hand. "I hope so."

Good. Now to get him stage-ready… actually, being covered in the blood of the Nine would probably only be a selling point for this kind of audience, so he probably didn't need a hosing this time. She'd just have to give a heads up to the bassist; he had a weak stomach. And hey, he had two more hands for the drums, now, so that was a plus. Which just left motivation to get him onstage after what had apparently been a rough few days.

"Would you like a treat?" she asked, already reaching for her jerky pouch. With her non-bloody hand.

And then he coughed up a foot.

They both looked at it on the ground for a moment. It was small, partially dissolved, and definitely human.

"I'm sorry," he rumbled, closing his eyes and lowering his head again, his tail curling up around his legs. "I'm not hungry anymore."

"Duct Tape," Apex rumbled as she passed him on the golf cart. She didn't stop, so he turned to follow and loped along, easily keeping pace. Damnit. She kept her voice steady, professional.

"I'm a little busy, Big A, so please just let me do my job."

"You smell upset," he said, ignoring her. She made a mental note to get stronger deodorant.

"It's fine," she lied. "Staying busy helps," she added, when his red eyes wouldn't leave hers.

He held a large, clawed hand out, placing it on the frame of the cart. If she kept going, it'd make her spin out, so begrudgingly she slowed down. "Just let me do my job, okay?" she pleaded. "There's nothing anyone can do about it and thinking about it only makes it worse."

Thankfully, he didn't try to pet her back this time. She wasn't nearly as touchy-feely as he was, especially when upset. He did stare at her, though, with a demonic equivalent of puppy dog eyes—

Oh goddamnit—

"It's Betty," she admitted, eyes stinging, face growing hot. Damnit, she was working, she could maintain… "Cancer. She's only got a few weeks. I'm deciding if I should put her down or not, but the vet says it's past the point of no return." He didn't say anything, but she hadn't had a lot of time to process this, so despite herself she kept going. "Even if I could justify the cost and the time off in the middle of a tour for her to get surgery, it would barely improve her chances and ruin what little time she has left." Her knuckles were turning white from her grip on the cart's steering wheel, and for all her despair she had a running list of things that needed to get packed up before they moved cities, and…

"I will be right back," he said, and she blinked after him. After all that, he was just going to walk away?

He disappeared for nearly a week.

When he came back, it was with Black Goat in tow.

"What do you think of his latest stray?" Pizza asked, as she drove him around the concert grounds. He asked for the occasional ride, to get fresh air, and it was usually when she needed a break anyway, so she rarely minded.

Duct Tape followed his gaze, narrowing hers at Lipstick, who was slacking off, making lovesick eyes at Apex as he lifted a crate bigger than her golf cart into a truck with only half of his hands.

"I saw her turn a live cat into a scarf," she said, succinctly encompassing all of her opinions on the woman.

He just smiled at her. Luckily for him, it was a kind, slightly sad smile, so she didn't punch his ass out of the golf cart at full speed. She'd done that to Burnout, once, after he threatened to melt her LP collection for some perceived slight. She had also convinced Happy Pill to convince Black Goat to not immediately fix his broken arm, either. He had learned his lesson, after that.

"I think she makes him happy," he said, after another minute's leisurely cruising around the camp.

She couldn't deny that, as much as she'd like to. She could, however, be displeased about it. "For now," was all she replied.

Pizza just hummed noncommittally, scratching Betty behind her ears, causing the little dog's leg to start thwapping the plastic seat in simple joy.

"Crew morale is low, Tape. I think it's time for the speech." Burnout scratched at one of his silly little devil horns, gesturing with his other hand at a crew that was, admittedly, somewhat listless. The end of a tour did that to some people. Seeing the end near, instead of pushing through one last time after all of that hard work, they lost steam.

She sighed, then climbed on top of a crate, put her pinkies in the corners of her lips, and let out an ear-piercing whistle, drawing the attention of everyone in a hundred yards. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Apex pop his head up over a trailer, but she waved him off. She looked over the sea of familiar faces—all hard workers, many of whom she could call friends. Raising her voice to '_stop what you're doing and look the fuck over here_' levels, she addressed the crew.

"Do you know why they call me Duct Tape? It's not this." She gestured at the novelty-sized roll at her hip. "It's because I hold this whole show together! Kurt handles the money, Burnout handles the crew, Big A and the band handle the music, but the logistics? What goes where? Who does what? What to do when the septic tanks overflowed and now the grease trucks can't access the food trailers? Who to call when your staff Tinkers request a giant Slurpee machine or ten grams of depleted uranium?" She gestured with both thumbs at her chest. "That's all me!"

A pause for effect. A few small cheers, whistles from the newer crew who didn't already know where this was going.

"Except that's bullshit, because that's not why I'm named Duct Tape. It's because I hand-picked every single one of you chucklefucks, freaks, weirdos and outcasts, not just because you're good at what you do or can learn quickly, but because you are a fit for the family. That's right, a family. People who live together, eat together, sleep together, work together, don't see their other families for months and months on end, know each other backwards and forwards. We are Gold Mourning, and we are more than just a production company. We are a crew. We are a team. We are a family. And we get the job _done_."

Another pause. More smiles, but fewer cheers this time, as even the slowest members of the crew remembered the rule of threes.

"Except that's bullshit, too. It's because of the roll of duct tape. Big A is just bad at names." And there was the laughter, the release of tension she was aiming for. People looking around at each other, a few of them noticing Apex nodding silently over to the side, agreeing. Now for the motivation part. "Anyway, enough fucking around, get back to work! Larry, you're on forklift duty, so no drinking! Sarah, you're wrangling food trailers; make sure they're cleared out by six or we're not sleeping tonight. Get moving people, the tour's not over till it's actually done!"


	29. One Day We Will All Go Into The Water

The rain intensified, thick sheets of it pouring out of the dark sky. It hissed on grass and leaves, pattered on the freshly-turned soil, conjured up drums on roofs of nearby cars, and tapped out a frantic, restless rhythm on the tombstones laid out in uneven rows of the graveyard.

I gently lifted my arm out of the woman's grasp, held it out over her, extending out flaps of skin like sails. A canopy. She shook herself a little more dry, the squirrel tucked into her hood doing the same.

The man standing before the recently-filled grave did not flinch at the downpour, allowing the rain to soak him to the bone. Hesitating, I moved up until we were beside him. Held out my other arm. He didn't seem to notice the rain stopping at first, eyes still fixed on the tombstone. One of a pair, years apart.

I read the inscription. The name, both familiar and not. The date, just as Pizza had reported. A week ago. Car accident. That somehow made it worse, although I wasn't sure precisely why.

The man glanced up at me, eyes hollow, devoid of emotion besides grief. "Who?" His voice was hoarse, choked, like breathing itself was a burden, and his lips moved silently for a moment afterward before he just… gave up.

The woman looked up at me, following my lead. She huddled into me against the chill and the wet. The man just stood there, waiting.

"She was important," I said, although I wasn't… entirely sure. She had been important to someone. Besides this man. Not personally, but in a bigger picture sense. Something that came up in my dreams, my songs. Just outside of my reach, but also removed by a few degrees, like it mattered to someone that mattered. Distant echoes.

"Yes," he croaked, looking back down at the grave. His glasses were still streaked and beaded with rain, but it didn't seem to bother him. He coughed a little, worked his jaw. "She was the most important person in the world," he continued, still raspy, but more audible. "She was all I had left."

I glanced at the other grave marker. _She taught something precious to each of us._

"I'm sorry for your loss," the woman offered. Still confused, but there were social niceties. Ritual words.

The man said nothing. That, too, was expected.

Thunder pealed, rolling over the hills and trees surrounding the graveyard. The rain pelted down like bullets, now. A proper storm. It set my fur writhing, sympathetic snaps and pops of lightning I kept carefully away from the fragile humans beneath my wings.

The man stunk. Unwashed, faintly alcoholic. The rain only did him favors, yet it couldn't remove the pervasive scent of despair coming off of him in waves. I felt a vague sense of responsibility, somehow. Some way I could have helped her, helped him. Perhaps I still could.

"If you could forget her," I rumbled out, and his breath hitched, his fists clenching. "Stop feeling that pain. Would you?"

He looked like he might hit me for a moment, our size difference be damned, but he just tightened his fists and tensed his jaw. It suited him better, that little fury, even if I didn't understand it. It seemed a reasonable offer.

"No. Never," he spat out. "I'd die first."

Ah. Well.

I turned his answer around in my head, looked at its edges, saw how they fit in my thoughts. There were a great many holes, there, but it slotted in somewhere in my past that seemed to mesh, if a little uncomfortably.

"...You're stronger than me, then," I acknowledged, words spilling out of me like boulders tumbling down a cliff face. Slowly at first, then picking up speed, growing in meaning. I had to be strong, because I had been weak. Always looking forward, always moving forward, no matter what you left behind, what it cost. I grew—in my own way, on my own path—because to stop growing was to… die.

The man said nothing, slowly relaxing his jaw, but the woman dug her fingers into the fur on my side, getting my attention. Protected from the rain, she looked up at me, her eyes finding my face, eyebrows furrowed, a small frown on her lips.

"That's not you, not anymore. You're gotten stronger," she murmured, barely audible over the rain, the thunder.

I looked up at the dark sky, sheets of rain pouring over my face, tracing paths where my eyes had been down my cheeks, like tears. "Yes," I growled back, throat tight, baring my teeth to the oncoming storm. Saying goodbye. "I have."

I heard the mournful wail of sirens a heartbeat before the others did, turning my head towards the sea. The woman followed suit, but the man didn't so much as blink, gaze still fixed on the graves. I looked down, meeting her eyes, my hearts pounding faster, pulse quickening, lightning crackling in my veins. The storm had arrived.

A part of me simply wanted to leave her behind. A much smaller part considered leaving alongside her, to safety. The greatest part simply watched and waited, seeing what she would do.

The hoops of metal on her black lips quirked as she grinned at me, indulgent, warm. _Lipstick_. My hearts thumped slightly out of sync, seeing that, seeing her. "Go on, you beautiful monster," she said, giving me the gentlest of shoves. "I'll be here when you've finished having your fun."

I turned to go, my body aching in anticipation of the battle and pain and growth to come, but stopped. My tongues snaked out between my lips of their own accord; one gently kissed her rain-soaked cheek; the other touched the leather cord tied at the base of my broken horn. A name etched there in bone I didn't need to read to remember.

"I'll be right back... Mera."

Her smile practically banished the clouds.


	30. M : This Night Is Yours

The air was painfully humid; the smell of rotting fish, stagnant puddles, waterlogged ruins and rapidly-growing mold stunk up the place, and there were more than a few corpses, carefully ignored.

Aside from all of that, though, I was happy.

Perched on Apex's slightly-broader-than-before shoulders to not slow him down, my hands gripped tightly (but carefully) on his horns, I was above it all, a passenger, riding the most glorious of mounts. Apex's cheerful humming—a low growl that shook my bones in a most pleasing way—was contagious, and I found myself humming an alto accompaniment. It was a melody from one of his first albums, "Jack Offs King", although I wasn't sure if he'd know that if asked. But what did that matter? If he needed to know, I could remind him. I would remember for the both of us.

We raced across the city this way, following his nose. He would sniff the air, head zeroing in on the right direction like an English Pointer, and then his cilia would tighten its grip on my hips and legs, the only warning I got before he launched himself over rubble, bounced off of wrecked walls and soared over still-standing rooftops. Then he would dig, assisted by the two rubbery, ten-foot long tentacles that had grown from his back fighting an Endbringer—why yes I _was _rather pleased with this development—gingerly pull out an injured or trapped survivor, and I'd call it in for pickup. Rinse and repeat. Meditative, almost, if you ignored the devastation and the knowledge that these were, until a few hours ago, the homes and businesses of actual people.

More lived than would have otherwise, though, thanks to my Apex. That's what mattered, really.

Well, that's what we would tell the public. Between me and Apex, I thought we were both more excited about the tentacles. And his post-fight afterglow, his eyes bright and many-hued, thanks to a gift from Sunshine. Who was apparently Legend.

Yeah, my boyfriend got wrecked by Legend. By request. How cool was that?

And he still wore the bones. In a moment of stillness, waiting for the wind to change directions and a new scent to cross our path, I slid down my grip on his left horn, feeling the ridges beneath my fingertips, until the edge of my hand hit the still-intact leather circlet, the pieces of me unscratched. He had tilted his head out of the way of a lot of water echoes, he had said, when he returned to me, back on that hill.

I had the feeling he would remember me, now, even without it. And if he didn't, I was confident I could remind him. I could accept all of him, strengths and weaknesses alike. There were worse flaws in a partner.

My smile faded only slightly when I thought about how he got that way. That video…

I still had a lot of questions. Things Pizza said would be explained in time. Maybe. When Apex felt up for it. I wouldn't push. It was hard enough watching him mourn his… brother. Which fit better than 'his past self', because, really, it wasn't _him _anymore. That man was dead. Whatever plans, notes, schemes and legacy he'd set up for Apex had ended. Whoever he had been, Apex was his own monster. His own beautiful, talented, wonderful monster, who decided his own fate.

Just like I did. And there, leaned forward so I wouldn't slide off of his back even while he perched on the side of a building, fishing survivors out from collapsed stairs and piles of shattered furniture, I thought—_what do I actually want, now_?

The same as before, really. A life of adventure. Full of music. Highlighted by travel, seeing the world. And I wanted to do it by his side. I nodded to myself, shifting out of the way slightly as tentacles grabbed exhausted, mildly alarmed, very water-logged office workers and gently clutched them by his side, somewhat mollified by his quietly rumbled reassurances and my presence.

And what did he want?

"Apex, sweetheart," I asked him, as he laid out the survivors on the ground and I tapped the wristband he'd brought from the fighting, alerting the other S&R folks. He tilted his horned head, one eye aimed up at me, just so I'd know he had heard me. "What do you want to do now? After all this, I mean."

The wristband beeped and flashed green, so he started walking down the street, one middle hand pulling at the fur beneath his chin, thoughtful. I could almost feel the way his tail shifted behind him with each step, counterbalancing with long, slow sweeps.

"I think," he began, his voice pitched low, quiet for him. "I think I've earned a vacation." He paused, his head tilting up, looking at the gray, overcast sky. "I was on a beach once. A nice one. Sunny." His tongues flicked out briefly, tasting the air, quick as lightning. "There was… a boat, I think."

I hid my grimace, because I knew he would have seen it. Beaches weren't… really my thing. What with the whole _outdoors _and _bright sun plus pale skin_ thing. But that didn't matter. As long as I was with him, I'd… heh. I felt myself smiling, scratching idly with my claws on the fur of the back of his neck. I would _adapt_.

Least I could do, really.

The moment was interrupted by a different sort of buzzing, on my belt. My work phone. I pulled it out, thumbed it on, saw it was a message from Kurt, to Apex. Why wouldn't he have just—oh, right. _Leviathan_. That made sense. I felt as much as heard Apex's low questioning sound, so I read the message and summarized.

"Apparently you've got a new appointment request Kurt thinks you'll enjoy. Someone named... 'Long'?"

I felt Apex shudder slightly beneath me, between my legs, and his cilia flared up, waving and turning silver and red for a moment before settling down. My, he was excited by this. I made a note to actually… _eugh_. To actually _thank _Kurt later.

"I'm not sure why, but I think this one will be fun," Apex rumbled cheerfully. Then he paused, slowing mid-stride, and turned his head back towards me, his one rainbow eye checking in, his unspoken question.

I smiled. _Yeah. I could get used to this_. Actually…

"Maybe this time… I could watch?"


End file.
